


Inbetween Moments

by theodorebee



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Steve Rogers - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Completed, F/F, F/M, Finished, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Modern Era, No Smut, Sickness, Teen Romance, Timelines, Trans Character, War Era, mlm author, trans author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 16:16:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 54,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16021490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theodorebee/pseuds/theodorebee
Summary: Steve crashed the ship, and down it sank, deeper and deeper into the ocean where the light didn't dare to reach. But he lived. He wasn't supposed to, but he did. He's always been stubborn like that. He goes off to rescue Bucky and everything seems like it should be perfect. He's survived the war, his boyfriend is safe, his best friend and her girlfriend are happy and well.But he's been having these headaches and dreaming of another world, a world that seems more and more real with each passing day. A world with flying men in suits and green monsters and gods from other worlds. Except- when he's in this world, he believes he didn't survive the crash. That he never escaped in time to rescue Bucky, and that they're all part of an elite team called the Avengers.Both realities cannot be real, that much he knows, so he sets out to find answers, all while falling for the same man from two separate worlds, two different realities. And he can't have both.





	1. THE ROOM

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Norelica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Norelica/gifts).



Steve ran his fingers through the dark mess of hair before him, slowly forming a series of messy knots that loosely resembled a braid. James sat on the hardwood floor, leaning on Steve’s inner leg to properly face the television that the two had saved up to buy. It was one of the most expensive items in their modest but sturdy apartment, second only to the radio resting on the nightstand to his left. The dial was in the on position, leaving the soothing sound of jazz to waft lazily through the air, and out into the calm air of the city streets below. He stopped, gently working out a small tangle, and continued. James leaned his head back, beaming upwards at Steve.

“You’ve messed up your hair,” Steve smiled. Realizing that his words had slowed to match with the downbeats of the jazz—softened to a gentle whisper to give way to the saxophone that seemed to breathe life into their tiny home. “C’mon, Barnes.” James’s smile melted into something more tender as he reached up, his scarred fingertips just barely tracing along Steve’s jawline. Steve pulled a hand free of the hair strewn across his right leg and gently intertwined his fingers with James’s. Without the listless hand motions to occupy him, Steve became increasingly aware of the buzzing energy in the back of his mind. “Well I guess I’m done with braiding then. Ready to get up?” 

“No,” James whined. His hand went limp and he fell backwards to the floor dramatically. Steve lifted up his leg to see where James had feigned his death, one hand tossed onto his chest and the other half open on the floor. “I don’t want to.” He batted his eyes at Steve, as if he could woo him into changing his mind. “Stay in,” he pleaded, “we can order takeout and rent a movie.”

“Well, tough luck, James,” Steve chuckled softly. “When you impulse eat all the groceries we need to buy more.” Steve stood up, hopping over James and placing his hands on the frame of the window. He grunted as he forced the water warped frame of the lower panes back down into place. Without the sound of city horns to blend with the music, the faint jazz seemed even louder, rattling off the walls and making Steve want to dance with James, the way they had all those years ago: blinds drawn, heads on each others’ shoulders, carefully stepping in time to the beat, each pretending they weren’t fully ready to jump apart at even the slightest sign of a visitor. The fact that they didn’t need to hide anymore still made Steve feel odd. 

“Steve?” Steve started, realised he had been gripping the window latch. He slid it shut and pulled the string from the blinds, letting them fall shut and clatter to the window sill. The blinds not quite stopping the final rays of the setting sun from forcing their way through, landing on the far wall. “You good?” He heard the rustling of fabric as James righted himself into a sitting position. Steve could see him tilt his head out of the corner of his eye and pretended not to notice. He closed his eyes and nodded, not sure if he was trying more to reassure himself or James.

“I’m good,” Steve lied, unsure of what was troubling him but not wanting to find out quite yet. James frowned and stood up. Crossing the distance between them in two steps, he put his head on Steve’s shoulder and, when Steve didn’t react, slowly circled around to stand in front of him, having to stand close to fit between the blinds and Steve. James’ hands found their way to Steve’s shoulders, his metal fingertips cold against Steve’s skin. Steve felt his hairs stand on end. He forced a smile, knowing for the second time that he wasn’t misleading anyone with his facade. “I’m good,” Steve repeated.

“I’m here if you want to talk,” James reminded, his hair glowing like a halo as light passed through it. He frowned, his calm ocean eyes stirring with something akin to worry. A grin flickered onto his face and in an instant, all of the complexity of his expression was pushed aside. “I’m legally obligated, as your boyfriend, to make sure you’re happy at all times. It’s a responsibility I take _very_ seriously.” James winked at Steve. Steve rolled his eyes, smiling now. “Whenever you need me,” he trailed off slowly, kissing Steve’s jawline and leaving him as he walked over to the nightstand. He fell gracelessly to the bed to pull on his boots.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?” Steve turned to face James who had paused, second boot halfway on his foot, a look of confusion etched into his features.

“What?” He pushed his heel in, yanking on the laces and leaving them untied. He grabbed a hair tie from his wrist and looped it around the unruly fistful of hair atop his head until it was out of his face.

“You called my name?” Steve frowned, James shook his head in a ‘no.’ He stood up, and stretched his back.

“You’re losing it, Rogers.” Steve laughed, pushing aside the frown that nearly rose to his features. His head was suddenly swimming, as if someone had taken a clock and shaken it up, knocking all of the delicate and finely tuned wheels and springs out of place. Steve heard a rumble and the ground shook beneath him. He blinked again, the light was flickering. He frowned. No it wasn’t, it was shining brightly. James looked concerned this time. Steve squinted to see him through the dark of the room. 

“Steve?” 

“Steve?” 

Two words at once, the same voice. Laced with concern and stirring with sleep, both at the same time. Steve put a hand on the wall for balance. He didn’t— he stumbled. He gripped the wall in a fist, staring at it with wide eyes as it gave way to the will of his hand, bunching up like a tarp, allowing itself to— his hand closed on empty air. He felt his chest tighten, his eyebrows tug downwards. He grimaced.

“No groceries,” he slurred out suddenly, surprising himself. He winced at his headache, wondering why did his voice sounded so loud. Steve felt the gravity shift around himself, pulling him towards the floor below and to the far wall at the same time. James seemed unaffected. He rushed to Steve’s side. “Ja— let’s stay in.” 

“Of course, babe,” James cooed, feeling Steve’s forehead. Steve irritably tried to push him away but his arm was falling asleep. “Let’s get you to bed.” Steve took a step, another crash sounded, distant, but it still shook the ground. He stumbled. James looked at Steve as if he were crazy. “I’m gonna carry you, okay Steve?” He scooped him up without waiting for an answer, placing him in the bed and gently working off Steve’s shirt and trousers, leaving him in his boxers. He pulled the blanket over him, turned on the radio, it came out staticy, with worse connection than he’d heard since being thawed. It crackled, the jazz sounded distant. James climbed into bed next to Steve. 

“Sorry about the groceries,” Steve managed to mumble out again, his tongue feeling heavy. His eyes were already shut tight, overcome with a sleepiness he hadn’t known was there. He balled his fist up again, the blanket feeling like the wall. “I don’t—” he stopped, his voice was raspy, he was suddenly thirsty. “I’m—”

“Christ, Rogers,” came James’ voice from beside him, sounding tired. “We only get so much time to sleep each night, if you keep me up with your mumbling for one more minute I’m knocking you out myself.” Steve frowned. He rolled over. In the bed beside his was Bucky’s cot, pushed close in the solace of the shadows. He lay there, his hair tousled with the heaviness of sleep, short on the top, shorter still on the sides. A haircut on him that Steve hadn’t seen since the war. His eyes, bleary with a nighttime dullness, looking at him through the darkness. “You know I’m a light sleeper.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve groaned, his headache fading rapidly. He lifted his head, he was in the small tent the two had been sleeping in for the past week. “I had that dream again.” Steve said, tugging the blanket higher over his shoulder, suddenly shivering as the final warmth of his imagined life slipped away. “It’s better there.” Bucky had heard of this place, Steve had told him, in tiny whispers while they travelled from one place to the next, during training, in the few moments they were able to share in secret. Bucky’s eyes stared at Steve’s longingly, looking almost apologetic. 

“Just don’t let folks find out, okay?” A look of concern flickered over Bucky’s face as he spoke, a strand of hair fell from its hold and landed laying across his forehead. “You keep having these dreams but they’re happening. And you always seem so reckless after you wake up from one.” Steve knew exactly what Bucky was talking about, just last week, he had almost allowed the two of them to be caught behind the medical tent with Bucky in a deep asleep, head in Steve’s lap. Bucky had woken up at the last moment and had shot away, Steve had already been scolded for that one time and time again. Bucky had no issue reminding him of the dangers of being a homosexual. “They can’t exactly get rid of Captain America, but they’ll toss me out no problem. Then I won’t be here to protect you.” 

“I know,” Steve mumbled, almost uttering another apology. He was still reluctant to admit that he ever needed help. He definitely didn’t in this new body, but old habits die hard. He’d lost count of the times Bucky had come to Steve’s rescue and Steve had all too readily given in to let his friend take charge. He didn’t want Bucky to feel that Steve was a responsibility to be taken on, a person who couldn’t handle themselves and needed to be watched over. Bucky’s eyes still read with worry, deep and blue, like the night sky on a clear night, or the ocean at dusk. Steve decided to put his boyfriend’s mind at ease. “Don’t worry, I know the difference between wishful thinking and real life.” 

“Geeze,” Bucky mumbled tiredly, burying his head into his pillow. “You’d better be right.” Under the safety of their blankets, their hands found each other, making Steve think of the final months of his mother’s life. He thought about how much time Bucky had spent over at his apartment, always making sure their small family was safe and taken care for. Steve had hated it at first, but had quickly grown to love the daily schedule the two would come to build, and the many nights Bucky would spend over, both of them talking late into the night, always able to fill the silence but still knowing when to leave words unsaid. Their hands tangled together, faces nearly touching, each boy’s breaths tickling the nose of the other. Steve had to resist the urge to pull Bucky closer. In such tight quarters though, it was too risky. But it was paying off, after nearly six years, there was finally hope for the war being over.


	2. THE BAR

“You need to let this idea go,” whispered Peggy over her beer, leaning across the booth to be heard without raising her voice. “It’s all you’ve been talking about lately. You’re worrying Bucky, he’s your _partner_ , Steve. You have to see the negative repercussions this has had on him. He’s hardly been sleeping with all the fretting over you.” One of her slender hands gripped the glass handle of the cup, while the other drummed listlessly on the polished tabletop, the chipped red varnish on her nails reminded Steve of just how long it had been since he’d had had a chance to go to town. It was a rarity, that much was for sure. Steve didn’t understand the motive behind the order, but he sure wasn’t going to protest it when presented with the opportunity to have a night of relaxation with his friends, he was especially excited to get to know Peggy’s newest friend, Angie, a little better. Well—more than friends. The four had trekked through the woods, picking their way amongst the brambles and the weeds in the falling light until they’d happened upon a trail. They’d followed it to the small town, with lights twinkling through the glass panes in the doors and lining the walls of the buildings.

Steve had chosen a rather run down bar to spend their time at, deciding that the lack of vitality the place seemed to give off would deter a crowd. He had been right. The majority of the camp had fallen in favour of a sparkling cinema. Meaning the group had been left alone in the bar, save for what must have been a local couple and the small two—person staff. They’d claimed a table in the corner, knowing that seclusion would be better once the night happened upon them, bringing with it shadows and crowds of those getting off work. They’d sat down, had hardly had a moment to rest before Peggy had commented on how she’d needed more lipstick. _‘I’ll get some,’_ Angie had said, perking up. Before Peggy could reassure her that that wouldn’t be necessary, Bucky spoke up. _‘I’ll tag along, keep her safe.’_ Peggy had exchanged a look with Steve, both were blinking in confusion. _‘You two stay here, Steve—tell her about that dream you had a few days back.’_

Then they’d left. Slid out of the seats before either Steve or Peggy could protest. Steve had cleared his throat, shifting slightly before meeting Peggy’s gaze. She was concerned, and probably knew about what had been happening. Her gaze was pressing for answers, a wordless plea. He’d told her, and watched as her posture slowly slacken in defeat. They’d tried solving this issue in the past, but hadn’t known what to do, they still didn’t. They had turned their attention to the issue that _could_ be solved, the dreams. Or rather, convincing Steve that they weren’t real. _‘You need to let this idea go,’_ she’d said. Let it go? How? When it felt so real and tangible, so close… 

“I know,” Steve slumped into his chair, “It’s all just so swell.” His eyes shifting their focus as the buzzing of the flickering neon light faded to silence, the memory playing so vividly in his head that he felt he was nearly leaving this world behind. “Buck and I— except he’s James— not _really_ Bucky, can just walk down the street, loving who we please, no one gives us a glance. Peg, it’s such a dreamy world,” Steve’s voice was airy, and Peggy’s firm grip dragged his floating hopes back down to the cold, rocky earth. 

“Steve,” she lowered her voice. “It’s never going to happen, and besides, I know you think this is all real. But robots? A fully replaced arm? Hovering men dressed up in tin? I—”

“Iron,” Steve corrected sheepishly. 

“What difference does it make?” Peggy demanded in exasperation. “It’s not real and you need to accept it. The more you wish for something you can’t have, the more unhappy you’ll be.” Steve’s gaze fell to his lap and he played with his hands, he could almost feel James’ hand finding its way to his with a comforting squeeze. Instead, it was Peggy reaching across the table, tilting his chin up so she could meet his gaze. “What you have here isn’t bad,” she insisted softly. “We just have to be careful. It could be worse.” Her vibrant maroon lipstick was the red flag of the lie passing her lips. She lived in it daily. She knew that hidden hand holds and longing glances that would never amount to more than a single kiss a week was no way to live a life, especially with the one you loved.

“You’re right,” Steve admitted, remembering what had happened to the man in the apartment several blocks down. A worn and folded photo booth print had been blown out a cracked window where it had fluttered downwards, coming to rest beside a pile of newspapers a kid was eagerly trying to sell. Stooping down, picking up, waving it above his head, probably hoping to sell more newspapers than those near him by attracting a crowd, but ruining two innocent lives in the process. The edges worn to dust and a tiny promise of forever love scrawled in smeared lead, it showed two men sharing a hidden kiss in front of the photobooth camera, smiles wide with glee and exhilaration. A smile soon wiped away by the reality of life as Steve watched the crowd oogle at the photo, disgust pulling back their lips into crude sneers, confusion playing on their faces, and a cop quickly snatching it up and demanding to know who those _‘wretched sinners’_ were. Steve thought of he and Buck meeting that same fate, and shuddered.

“You’ve got a good life,” Peggy assured, shooting a glance over her shoulder at the filled table several booths away, aside from that, they were alone. “Don’t throw it away on wishful thinking.” She pulled her hand from his face and put it back on the table, drumming her fingers again to the familiar beat he heard at every marching drill. “These moments in your head are just that. In your head. You can’t allow your imagination to put you in danger.” 

“I know. I _know_ they’re dreams, they just always leave me so disoriented.” Steve nodded, wishing so intensely that these dreams would stop altogether. The headaches were unbearable enough as it is, and they seemed to be plaguing him more and more often now, and sometimes in the middle of the day now. He wasn’t sure what he was to do to make them stop aside from taking more painkillers. And Peggy was already considering cutting him off, saying that it was unhealthy to take as many as he did as often as he did. “Peg,” he began hesitantly, she looked up. “Can I have more of those pills?”

“You know I don’t want to say no,” she sighed, absentmindedly fixing a pin holding her hair up. She tugged on an out of place strand. “I suppose another bottle. But _no_ more after that.” Steve let out a sigh of relief, remembering how the headaches felt, how lost and groggy he became. “Promise me you’ll see Erskine’s team soon.” Steve fidgeted in his seat, shaking his head slightly. It was more to himself than for Peggy, but she picked up on the miniscule movement. Her face fell into a frown of concern.

“We both know he was the brain behind the operation,” Steve said pointedly. “They can’t fix any of these serum-related issues.”

“You shouldn’t be reacting this way,” Peggy said insistently. Steve had heard the speech many times. He could nearly quote it verbatim. He knew her words— always laced with worry, her phrases always the same. He knew the speech and yet… it always had the same effect. Always made his stomach churn with guilt, always brought him to the brink of changing his mind. “The serum made you stronger, it made you healthier. If we need to run tests you shouldn’t run from that. We could make you better. You’re an icon of freedom and the american dream. Every kid wants to be you. You can’t let that die just because of a fear of doctors.” 

_I’m not scared of doctors,_ he wanted to say, _I’m scared that they’ll find something wrong with me. That they’ll take me out of the war._ Steve felt bitter at the thought. He’d worked so hard to be here. He wasn’t going to give it up, not when they were so close to winning.

“I’ll think about it,” Steve’s shoulders slipped down in resignation. “And thanks for the medicine. You’re a lifesaver.” Peggy nodded in a wordless response as she took a sip from her drink, the neon lights around the room making the liquid inside sparkle mischievously.

“I’ll be right back,” Steve said, excusing himself as he slid from the worn vinyl seat. His hand caught on the small rips and tears, where stuffing threatened to spill out at any moment. “Just need to splash my face with water.” He stood, taking a moment to gain his footing, before leaving Peggy and walking off to the back corner of the bar to a door with the word _RESTROOM_ printed onto it in bold, painted on letters, Steve tried not to make a note of the unsteady hand it had been painted with. He grabbed the handle and tugged it open, the settled structure of the building made the door groan with resistance, but it eventually gave way. The bathroom was small and cramped. Steve shut the door behind himself and tentatively placed his hands on the edge of the sink and, unsure if it would hold any weight, slowly leaned on it. When it proved to be steady, he moved forward, surveying himself in the mirror. His eyes were tired, and his mouth didn’t seem to remember what it felt like to smile. His hair seemed to be thinning already— more from the harsh conditions than age— at least, that’s what he told himself. He was too young to be this out of it.

Steve turned on the faucet and, as the water trickled downwards, he held his cupped hands out. He rubbed his face with his damp fingers, closing his eyes and relishing the warmth of the water. The water sputtered faster, growing slightly steadier, and Steve reached out for a towel, bringing it up and wiping his face dry. His head was suddenly throbbing. He opened his eyes and looked at himself in the mirror once more, blinking to adjust to the suddenly brighter light from the ceiling. The scratches and smears of the glass reminding him of where he was. Leaving the hand towel folded and where it needed to be and turning off the sink, Steve spun towards the door and put his hand on the wooden handle. He paused, frowned, turned around.

The walls of the bathroom were wooden panels, but just a moment before— suddenly the drywall was painted white, and Steve couldn’t hear the music that had been playing in the bar, he listened for it. Faintly, he could make out the obnoxious whining of an oboe playing on the scratchy record, the sound came in waves, swelling and falling with each moment, growing fainter and fainter. The sink was new, no longer just a fixture on the wall with exposed pipes, but built into a cabinet, a tiny assortment of bottled soaps and aftershaves cluttered atop it. Steve couldn’t hear the record of the orchestra any longer. He faced the door, noticing that it was now white, and realized it reminded him of the— no. Steve shook his head, no, no, _no_. This wasn’t happening. At night was one thing, but imagining this dream waking? He had to get to Peggy. 

Steve grabbed the brass doorknob and turned it. The door slid open without a protest of any kind, and he stepped out into the hall. Steve tossed a look over his shoulder, the flickering light finally steadying its hesitant shine. He clicked it off. He was immediately faced with a gray drywall, and a familiar one at that. Steve shot a look over his right shoulder, down the hall, and saw the golden rays of the sun lighting up their one room. Steve walked down, his head still bothering him, and his feet dragging on their own accord. He reached the corner and poked his head out. James was standing at the window, his arm off and laying on the bed. He was sitting on the window sill, his feet dangling out above the city below. Steve could hear him whispering. 

“Hi,” he cooed softly, “yes, hello.” Steve walked closer, James was petting an alley cat with a missing leg It leaned against James, purring. Steve sat on the bed, just beside James, and the sound broke him from his trance. He turned around, smiling. “Heya, Steve.” Steve nodded a hello, smiling at the joy that seemed to radiate from the two. “I was just— uh, making a friend.” 

“I can see that,” Steve chuckled, feeling his sense of unease slipping from his fingers, like holding water through outstretched hands. Why had he been anxious again? He shifted and sat beside James, who leaned his head on Steve’s shoulder. Steve watched the dusky sun’s golden rays light up the leaves of trees and shine through the wispy clouds above. The crowd on the sidewalk was slowly filtering out as families ducked into their homes for the night. Steve felt so accustomed to the presence beside him all of the sudden. It was as if he had known James as long as he had known Bucky, as if they truly were the same person, and for a moment, he could swear that James felt the same familiarity slip into their comfortable silence. The cat crawled into James’ lap and Steve moved to pet it. For a second, he almost felt the name ’Bucky’ play on his lips, almost slip out. 

“I love you,” Steve whispered, leaning into James’ shoulder. James laughed. 

“I should hope so, Rogers,” he scratched the cat on a small orange patch beside its ear. “We’ve been living together for two years. Dating for three.” Steve chuckled, he reached out his right arm and wrapped it around James, pulling him closer. No, he and Bucky weren’t the same person. Bucky had grown up with Steve, whereas James had been tortured and known a pain that Steve couldn’t even begin to fathom. Steve had only just met him recently really, but there were moments when he swore he could see remnants of his best friend there. The best friend he’d lost who— Steve blinked, _no_. Bucky was alive, alive and well, this was the dream, not back there. He felt his headache momentarily return, along with the shrill whisper of a flute, floating into his mind, suddenly almost feeling so real he could— 

It faded. Steve ignored it, willed the noises away, not ready to return to reality yet.

“Want to see a film tonight?” Steve asked, rubbing small circles into James’ shoulder. The cat stepped between the two of them, sitting contently in the sun’s dimming light. “Or go for a walk?”

“We could stay in,” James offered, fidgeting slightly. Steve could smell his minty aftershave on his skin, the berry scented shampoo. When Steve didn’t immediately agree, he sighed. “We have that complimentary dinner that guy owes us, the nice place— wanna cash that in?” Steve felt himself involuntarily tense up. James noticed and pulled his head from Steve’s shoulder, sending him a questioning look. Steve reminded himself that eating a dinner wasn’t condemnable anymore, not in this world. They wouldn’t be asked where their girls were, who they were waiting on, or given any strange looks when one of them picked up the bill instead of splitting it. They could hold hands. Steve made himself take a deep breath. He pulled away and looked at James.

“Sorry, I— I still get nervous.” It took all of his willpower to not jerk away when James pressed their foreheads together, his flags were flying up, screaming at him that they were in public, in plain view. He made himself take another breath. James took his hand, and as the cat immediately hopped away as the affection stopped, he ran his fingers through Steve’s hair. James held his gaze, one half of his face shining brilliantly in the light, the other shrouded speckled shadows.

“I get nervous too,” James admitted softly. “If that helps. Not about the same stuff, but I know what it feels like.” Steve smiled and nodded, knowing he was trying to help. “I don’t remember much of that stuff,” James hummed softly, a whisper that only Steve would be able to hear, even if someone else were sitting right beside them. “Like what it was like way back before, when we were kids n’ shit.” His hand came to rest on the back of Steve’s neck, he slowly brought it forwards to rest on his shoulder. “I don’t fully remember what it was like, but I know it’s tough for you.” Steve’s breaths were shuddering now, coming out shaky like a pile of loose papers in a windstorm. He consciously prevented his gaze from shifting to the group walking down the street looking up at them. “People don’t care here, but it’s hard to untrain this sorta thing from someone.” Steve chuckled in spite of himself, nodding in agreement. James’ gaze turned sympathetic. “Date night in?”

“No,” Steve shook his head at the offer, swallowing his fear and steadying himself. He figured that he might as well live out his dream of being openly himself while he could, before he— the thought dropped off. Steve couldn’t for the life of him remember where it had been going. “A night out works.” He could swear he could hear a running faucet from before, sputtering, still running. Steve ignored it, focusing on James. The sound faded. He was back on the balcony. He tossed one leg over the other side of the window, straddling the windowsill. James’ grin was euphoric to look at, and Steve felt breathless just by seeing it. He snaked his arms around his waist, lifting him gently and coaxing him into standing.

James nearly stumbled over the wall but made it inside safely. Steve’s hands slid down his waist, coming to rest on his belt loops, Steve hooked his fingers into them, tugging James closer still, and yet never close enough. James laughed into the kiss Steve swept him into, grinning at the surprise. Steve pulled away, smiling, but James wasn’t satisfied with just that; he grabbed Steve’s shirt in a fistful and pulled him back down. Steve laughed, the danger his mind still seemed to think these actions brought making it that much more exciting. James pushed Steve to the bed, who fell with his back to the pile of pillows. Steve felt his arms cover in goosebumps. His heart sending a course of adrenaline with every twist and beat that was making his fingertips shake with anticipation, the danger of it all only heightening the experience.

“So I’m guessing you feel better now.” James laughed as he climbed over Steve, who mumbled in agreement. James pushed the metal arm to the foot of the bed with his toe, and planted his hand in the center of Steve’s chest for balance as he leaned, stooping down to kiss his boyfriend. James’ consistent leaning back made Steve slowly sit up, leaning deeper and deeper into the kiss and— James pulled away. His hand still on Steve’s chest, holding him back. “Tonight,” he promised. “Let’s go get that dinner.” Steve’s face filled with red hot heat, suddenly realising what he had been doing. He nodded wordlessly, only slightly embarrassed. James sat on his lap, his legs straddling Steve, their faces still inches apart.

“I could cook something,” Steve offered, turning away sheepishly, still wondering how he had let himself be overcome by his feelings like that. And with the window open too.

“Well since _someone_ had a dizzy spell last night,” James hummed, tracing the contours of Steve’s left arm with his fingers, skimming along the surface lightly, “I guess we still need to go get food.” Steve’s face turned sour and James laughed. “I’m only half joking,” he giggled, “besides, there’s a two for one sale at that one hot dog stand.” Steve nodded, realising suddenly just how hungry he was. He moved so he was upright on his knees, letting James fall to his back, his hair fanning out behind him as he laughed. Steve untangled his legs from James’, scooching to the edge of the bed and standing properly. James straightened his legs out, now officially sprawled out on the bed like the lazy starfish he was. He heard a knocking at the door and turned to face it.

“Steve,” he heard a girl’s voice call his name, a voice he hadn’t heard in decades, he frowned. “Steve? Open up.” It was Peggy’s voice, Steve frowned, blinked, suddenly finding his hands wrapped around the porcelain sink edge, leaning over and his face dripping with water, the leaky faucet sluggishly running. Steve’s eyes widened and he let out a yelp, stumbling backwards and falling on the tile floor beneath himself. He looked down—hardwood floor—looked up. James was sitting on the bed, looking worried.

“Are you alright?” He tilted his head to the side, pushing his long strands of hair out of his face. “You sorta just fell.” 

“Yea,” Steve reassured, “I— I’m,” he stopped took a breath, “I’m good.” Steve closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked up, finding himself facing the water stained wooden walls of the bar’s restroom, Steve groaned, hoping for a moment that he would continue daydreaming, but he couldn’t seem to conjure up that moment again. He heard the knocking. 

“It’s been a while,” the voice, _Peggy_ , Steve corrected himself, called out, muffled through the wall. “Bucky’s here, he’s going to come in.” Steve scrambled to push himself out of the way of the door, pushing his back against the wall, revelling at how weak his legs suddenly were. The door thudded, forced open slightly, but still caught in the frame. Another pound, Steve gripped his head, his vision spinning. Bucky burst into the room, looking concerned, when he saw Steve he visibly relaxed. 

“Stevie,” he sighed, stooping down and tossing one of Steve’s arm around his shoulder. He hoisted him upwards, gently planting a quick kiss on the side of Steve’s neck. “It’s been ten minutes, what the hell were you doing in here?” Steve shook his head, pounding already fading from his skull. He stumbled out of the restroom, the memories of all those lost alley fights Buck would rescue him from suddenly resurfacing. Bucky pulled Steve into the same booth he and Peggy had been sitting at before, he looked to find the three staring at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“I—” the words hung on the edge of his lips, nearly passing into the air. _I was having another episode, but for the first time ever I was awake when it happened_. What would they say then? They’d throw him out of the military for not being mentally sound, what good would he be then? _You’re a danger to yourself, Steve,_ they’d say, _You’re better off staying in Brooklyn recovering._ “I just spaced out.” Anglie seemed disappointed at that answer, and neither Peggy or Bucky seemed to buy it. Thankfully, no one wanted to push it.


	3. BACK TO CAMP

Steve was stumbling, sleep blurring his eyes He was leaning on Bucky for support again and limping where he had bumped his shin into a wall. They were out in the cool night air all over again, shivering in spite of their joy, each huff that they forced from their mouths billowed upwards on this uncharacteristically cold night. Steve kept finding himself distracted by the puffs of air and the tiny dancing spirals they formed. Bucky was telling Steve stories, keeping his mind occupied. Steve listened intently, wondering if his feet would manage to get even heavier. He dragged himself along, his eyes fluttering shut on occasion, every passerby who offered to help just got the ‘he’s drunk’ explanation. Which was absolutely untrue with Steve’s alcohol tolerance. He’d drink the entire bar before even getting a little tipsy. They made their way back to the camp, walking over roots and skipping potholes in the road, picking along in the darkness.

“Peggy,” Steve asked, his tongue heavy in his mouth, his eyes struggling to stay open. He wanted to sleep right here. 

“Yes?” She asked, her heels in hand, slowing down slightly to match his stumbling pace. Angie did the same. Steve shifted so he was standing more on his own. His feet slid underneath himself as they made the turn off of the road, making their way to the trail that would lead them back to the camp. He met Peggy’s unfocused eyes and found himself noticing through the thickness of the shadows her flushed face and swaying posture.

“When would you say the war will end?” Peggy looked thoughtful at this, her slightly smeared lipstick taking away from her professional demeanor. She swayed her head from side to side, as if adding up numbers, trying to come to the most accurate estimation her alcoholed thoughts could manage. She pushed aside a branch. They were passing the krumholtz of the forest now, the small speckling of short trees that quickly gave way to their towering predecessors. 

“If I could guess?” She stopped, hiccuped, and continued as if nothing had happened. “In the next week.” Steve nodded, closing his eyes for a second as he continued walking. As his head began to pulse with pain, Steve supposed he should sleep soon. His foot caught under a root and he stumbled, suddenly fully awake. His half asleep body wasn’t able to regain its footing, so he twisted, knowing that he would at least land facing upwards. He hit the hard forest floor with a grunt. Bucky swore in a slurred voice. 

“Barnes, c’mon.” Steve looked up to see Bucky standing over him. He reached up, his eyesight suddenly flashing with bright lights. He looked up again. James, in their apartment, wearing his low slung joggers with an oversized tee, his hand outstretched. 

“Take my hand.”

“Take my hand.” 

Steve heard their double voices for the second time that week. His eyes widened in shock and he blinked a few times, his vision switching between the two. James. Bucky. James. Bucky. He stopped, bringing his hand down to rub his temples. He looked up again and saw both. The same posture, same man. Steve loved them both. He reached up, and with the same motion they grabbed his hand and hoisted him up. Steve blinked. James. In the apartment, still dusk, the window open with a gentle breeze nudging at the curtains. James pulled him into a crushing hug, and Steve felt his knees go weak. 

“You keep blacking out like that.” James fretted while he held him close, the golden light only serving to make Steve feel safer. “Let me know if you need help. I know you keep saying _‘no doctors’_ but c’mon, Rogers. I care about your stupid ass.”

“I love you,” Steve said in a hushed voice. He pulled away to see Bucky smiling at him, his gaze intoxicated but soft and warm. The tip of his nose was red, the shimmering moonlight filtering through the leaves overhead. Steve remembered all of those stumbling drunk nights they’d shared, all of those jokes that had seemed so dull during the day suddenly worth every sparkling smile in the world. 

“I love you too.” He pat Steve on the back and pulled him in for a quick kiss that he relished in the safety and solace the darkness brought the pair. They found comfort in the fact that the would soon return to their old home, where they would be free to touch, hug, kiss to their hearts’ content, so long as they were hidden before the walls of wherever they would find to call home. Steve’s eyes slipped open, finding Peggy and someone else staring at them. Someone he didn’t know. Steve let out a loud yelp into Bucky’s mouth and jerked themselves apart, Bucky stumbled backwards, tripping over a root and landing on the ground. He rubbed his back, looking at where Steve had been staring, looking unsurprised by the bystander. 

“What the shit, Rogers?” Bucky demanded, stumbling over his own feet as he clambered to his feet, dusting off his backside. “Ow,” he frowned, his anger already fading. “You okay? Did—”

“I’m so sorry.” The words tumbled out of Steve’s mouth as his mind began to sluggishly connect the dots laid out before him. Like recalling a long lost memory, faint but there, Steve slowly remembered that Angie, Peggy’s girlfriend, was definitely not a threat. The memories were coming stronger now. Steve cursed under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m— I didn’t recognise you Ang’, I panicked.”


	4. MEDICATION

“I need help,” Steve had whispered to Peggy all of those months ago. Back when the headaches had just started, before the situation had escalated. Steve was wincing as the words left his mouth. He didn’t want help from anyone, he wanted to do things himself, but he had to admit that he couldn’t do this on his own. She frowned, nodded. 

“I can’t exactly save the day off of that information.” She smirked at him. Straightening papers in her hands. Looking up from the desk she was sitting at. Steve’s head was throbbing. The joke he would normally laugh at made him nearly snap at her for mocking his pain. He swallowed his anger and smiled weakly. 

“I’ve been having headaches, worse than you can imagine, than I even thought possible,” Steve was tapping the surface of the table now. Gritting his teeth and feeling the vein on the side of his neck stick out. It felt as if every muscle was wound too tight. His entire self was about to snap. “I—” his voice failed him. He tried again. “I’m sorry Peggy, I know you’re busy. But can you see if this might be serum related?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Not the serum, it couldn’t be.” She pulled a file from a box. Looked it over. “You’ve been on that for too long without any sign of negative side—effects. Maybe the ship crash— no, but what about that—”

“I don’t care what it is,” Steve rushed. He immediately felt bad for cutting her off. Her face showed a flicker of annoyance. He continued talking with a sense of urgency. “Will— can you help me get painkillers. I already went to the tent. He won’t give me anything strong.”

“Painkillers don’t do anything for you anymore,” Peggy shook her head sadly. Steve shot her a pleading look. She must have seen something, a brokenness in his eyes, a need to believe in the condition bettering itself. “Okay,” Peggy agreed. She stood up, and made her way to the exit of her tent. Steve followed, digging his nails into his palms, drawing blood, creating a pain that was dwarfed in comparison to the quaking in his brain. 

Later that night, Steve took twice the recommended dosage as he ate his dinner. Bucky kept shooting him looks, the setting sun throwing shadows over his concerned features. Steve returned his gazes with a grimace of a smile, knowing he wasn’t fooling anyone. It was taking every ounce of self control to not grip his head into his hands and cry out. Not that anyone would hear. The two regularly snuck away to eat dinner behind the farthest tent. He kept imagining voices, seeing things. He kept blinking them away, taking several moments to ground himself each time. Steve paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a breath. 

“I’ve gotta go Buck.” Steve winced. “Take my ration.” He pushed his plate in Bucky’s direction. It screeched on the makeshift tabletop, fashioned from an old crate. Bucky grabbed Steve’s hand, holding it close to his chest desperately. 

“No—” Bucky said quickly. “I’ll come with.” He was a dishevelled mess, these episodes having as much of a toll on him as they were on Steve. He had bags under his eyes, his skin looked nearly brown with grime in the soft rays of sunlight. He hadn’t left Steve’s side, had hardly eaten, showered, slept. He had insisted that Steve see the medic sooner. Much sooner. He’d told Steve once in a string of words, jumbled by fatigue, that being able to help made him feel important. Steve hadn’t resisted much since then. But now, with Bucky looking half starved and miserable, Steve couldn’t just let him give up yet another meal— not without protest.

“I’m gonna sleep,” Steve excused weakly. “I won’t be much fun.”

“I’m coming with.” Normally, Steve would’ve argued. But he had to admit, that right now was the perfect time. They could sneak into the tent while the rest of the camp was eating and Steve could fall asleep with Bucky at the foot of his bed, just like old times. He nodded.

“Alright.” Among the pain, the screaming writhing pain that filled his head, Steve felt his mind still and his heart turn to putty inside his chest. He loved Bucky.

He spent several minutes in near agony, the headache that seemed to wash over him in waves was stronger now. Stronger still that it had been all day. He kept playing the medic’s words over and over again in his head, trying to find solace in the fact that it was— quite literally— all in his head. _You’re coming to me about this? A headache? I’ve got real problems to deal with. You may be captain-fucking-america, but in my tent you get the same treatment as everyone else._ Peggy had slammed her hands on the table and stared him down, reminding him in a steely voice that she was a high ranking government official. He had quickly closed the wound he'd been tending to, a training accident, and given Steve the meds. Steve hadn’t even checked to see if they were painkillers— if they would make him tired. He had downed a handful with reckless abandon. He felt pretty tired now. 

With heavy eyelids and a settling heartbeat, he dozed off, Bucky sitting on the dirt floor beneath, holding Steve’s slowly limpening hand. And it was a funny thing, sometimes you feel like you’ve slept for a year, a month, a week, a day. Steve felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. He felt rays of sunlight hitting the back of his neck, warming it. He squinted his eyes shut, groaning. He immediately noticed that the headache was gone and felt a smile slip onto his face. He pulled the blanket over his shoulder, resolving to sleep in just this once. But before he could drift off again, an uneasy feeling came over his head. He recalled events that had never happened. Dreams from the night before? Must’ve been a shitload of dreams. 

He dreamt of crashing the plane, the crash he had survived, except in his dream he didn’t. Instead of jumping through an escape hatch and executing a crude and panicked landing on the ice surface that would result in a broken shoulder, he had stayed on the ship. Instead of swimming from one floating piece of ice to the next, he’d been strapped in, slowly floating to the ocean floor. He’d missed the dance he’d promised Peggy— had been too frozen to slam his hands on the commander’s desk and demand a rescue mission. He hadn't saved Bucky. In his dreams he’d woken up after what felt like a century of sleep, but had found out that only nearly a quarter of that time had passed. He’d met friends in these dreams, people with technology that couldn’t exist. He’d lived in a world that was simply too different from reality to be real. Then he’d woken up.

Steve rolled over, all of these dreams concrete in his head, not slipping from his mind as they usually did. They stayed vivid, like real memories. He sat up, rubbing the back of his head groggily. He opened his eyes, frowning. He didn’t know where he was. Steve looked around. He tossed the covers aside, nearly fell when he tried to spring to his feet. He found his balance with a wall. A wall. He was in a camp, not a house. Camps didn’t have walls, they had heavy fabric hanging from metal poles. Sturdy enough, yes. But not a wall. A window was just beside him. He lifted the blinds, peered out into the street. He stopped, letting it fall back down, and rubbed his eyes with the flesh of his palms. He was in a city, with buildings reaching up above the skyline, not in the forest in the middle of nowhere.

“Hello?” he called out, his words echoing in the apartment. Steve was shivering.

“You’re finally up?” The voice that came in response was familiar and alien all at the same time. Steve followed the source, rounding a corner to see a tiny hallway. “I’m in the linen closet, gimme a hand.” Steve stared at the light cast onto the floor, shining out through the doorway, skewed by the nearly shut door. He stood, his hand hovering in the air, something nearly holding him back, and pushed it open.

He’d be lying if he said the metal arm wasn’t the first thing he’d noticed, hidden partially by the sleeves of the shirt, stained with flecks of paint. The man’s unkempt look accompanied by uncut hair, tied half up. He turned around, his face lighting up, confusing and sucking the breath from Steve’s body all at the same time.

“You’re—” Steve trailed off, the words caught in his throat. The face that stared back— that wasn’t Bucky’s, it couldn’t be. Not looking like that. “You’re Bu—” He cut himself off, unsure of how he was going to continue.

“So you’re calling me Bucky now?” Bucky laughed, but no, not Bucky. The name didn’t quite feel right. It didn’t belong to the man in front of him. “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t use that.” Steve was at a loss for words. His throat was dry, but at least his headache was gone. He wished he could say this felt fabricated, even that much would allow him comfort, the ability to tell himself that this might still be a dream. But this felt painfully real, and he felt achingly grounded, present in the situation, and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that what he was experiencing was true. Even though that was impossible. 

“How did you get here?” Steve croaked. “You—” _Died?_ “—shouldn’t be here.” _Not that it’s impossible,_ Steve reminded himself, _anything can happen in dreams._

“I live here,” he laughed, running his fingers through his hair, pausing to pull it free from the hair tie holding it up. His hair, longer than Steve had ever seen it worn, fell to his shoulders, several strands landing across his face, twisting like a winding road in the geography of his skin. “I mean I don’t pay rent but then again, neither do you. Stark covers it. The cocky little shit.” He stopped, the playful smile that had been playing on his lips faded, quickly replaced by a look of concern. “You look a little queasy. D’you need advil?” Steve backed into the doorframe and yelped, laughing nervously and trying to calm himself down. 

“N— no, I’m, uh,” he fidgeted with his fingers, wondering why he couldn’t for the life of him remember how he normally held himself, _where do my hands go?_ He kept himself from asking what Advil was, as soon as the thought entered his mind it was answered. He wondered how he knew this. His mind continued to be bombarded with memories that were unmistakably his, but logically shouldn’t exist. “I’m scared.” He let his shoulders slip down and his guarded posture melted away. This was a dream, as realistic as it felt. He didn’t have much to worry about. He would just deal with this until he woke up. Strangely enough, acknowledging his panic and unease worked. He thought back to what Bucky had said earlier, _’So you’re calling me Bucky now?’_ He parted his lips, making to ask what he should call him in place of the name he’d been known by the entirety of his life. But the answer rushed to his thoughts before he could articulate his confusion. _James._ Immediately it felt right.

“Let’s get you laying down,” James said, turning around and moving several bottles on the shelf, cleaning supplies, a sewing kit, a metal can that Steve instinctively knew held a tiny eyeglasses fixing kit. Before he could wonder how he knew any of these things, James’ hands were on his shoulders, turning him around. His cool metal hand snaked into Steve's grip. The coolness made him jump— but he was surprised at the familiarity he felt holding it. He allowed himself to be led to the bed he had just woken up from. “You okay?” James hummed a tune, walking with an effortless silence, shooting an endearing smile at Steve. “You seem jumpy, and just a _little_ like you’ve seen a ghost.” Steve laughed, hoping it didn’t sound as homourless as it felt passing his lips.

“No,” he began, unsure of what he was going to say. “This is just a really realistic dream.” James let out a good natured but exasperated huff. He used his hand to push hair from his eyes, his head lolling back as he leaned against the wall and looked at the ceiling, appearing to be deep in thought.

“Did you drink that outer space shit? The strong stuff?” Before Steve could answer, James had jumped to stand in front of him, pulling his face close and squinting his eyes, looking Steve. He nearly lost his breath staring into the eyes he’d spent so many days pining over, the eyes he’d hoped would stay blind to his affections out of fear of— “You don’t look drunk. You sick? Can you even get sick? That serum should've fixed sickness— right?” Steve shrugged helplessly, James dropped his hand from his face. His confused expression was so familiar, but in every instance of sameness there was a contrast, just as strikingly obvious.

“Sorry,” Steve said, rubbing his eyes again. “I’m probably just tired.”

“That’s not like you.” James tilted his head to the side, achieving an almost comical angle. Hair falling from its part, cascading to his shoulder, he beamed suddenly. “Either way, you need a nap. Another nap, actually. You _just_ woke up.” Steve smiled sheepishly, ducking his head when James jokingly swiped at it. “Maybe you’re just sleepwalking,” he teased, standing on his toes to peer Steve in the eyes. “Maybe this _is_ a dream.” Steve nodded, ignoring the sudden realisation that he’d never been the type to be aware of his dreaming. Regardless, at the mention of dreams, a wave of sleepiness washed over him.

“I’m not tired,” Steve stubbornly crossed his arms across his chest, but even he could hear how his words were forming in a sluggish pattern. Almost as if waiting for a que, a hint of the headache returned. “I—” his tongue was growing heavy in his mouth, almost as if his body was protesting him staying awake for a second longer. He could hear the familiar sounds of the wake up call from camp, camp— how many years ago? He couldn’t be hearing that now. The was was nearly seventy years ago now. His legs nearly went out from under his tiredly stumbling self. James was there to catch him and lifted Steve up, who was now nearly falling asleep in his arms. He backed Steve up to the bed, slowly helping him lean back, Steve’s head sank into the pillow and James unceremoniously tossed the pile of blankets over him. Steve immediately sat up, suddenly awake. Bucky was looking at him, tired and hungry.

“You get your sleep?” His laugh was light, and Steve could only barely detect the tiredness that plagued him. Steve frowned and nodded, struggling to recall the dream. It came back in fragments, more realistic than he’d ever felt before. Almost like recalling a memory.


	5. WAR'S END

Steve held his belongings in a case, standing in the pouring rain, thunder rumbled and a strike of light split the sky. Bucky pressed close to him in the crowded ship deck. The two were jostled back and forth in the crowded area, the floor swaying beneath their uneasy feet as they neared the ports. The engine came to a rumbling halt, and the boats movements slowed. The crew tossed ropes off the port side, and those on the steady docks slipped as they dove to catch it, tying the boat off to the protruding metal poles. Packed shoulder to shoulder where no one would see, Steve and Bucky had tentatively allowed their brushing fingers to linger, twitching hands slowly working their way into each other’s grasp. The danger of discovery was enough to send prickles down Steve’s spine. It was exhilarating. 

With a jolt the boat bumped into the dock. Bucky snatched his hand from Steve’s as people began stooping down to grab their luggage. Steve shot him a look of longing through the crowd as the two were forced apart. Without Bucky beside him, Steve found himself feeling cold, shivering in the rain that had been tolerable only moments before. It slipped down his skin, sticking his shirt to his jacket, both long since soaked through. The crowds pushed and shoved, for once Steve could see above their heads. They were all making their way to the docking ramp that had been put up. Steve followed wordlessly, deciding with a nod of finality to reunite with Bucky on land. His rubber soles squeaked on the steel surface underfoot, and he heard an eruption of laughter as a passenger slipped with a yelp. 

“Steve?” In an instant, an anxious Bucky worked his way through the crowd. “Who fell?” His hair was breaking from its gell—induced hold, falling to frame his water streaked face. His eyes wide and peering, he strained to see over the crowd, but to no avail. Steve shouldered his way past several shorter men and tapped Bucky’s shoulder, his finger sinking into the waterlogged wool jacket. He turned around, the frazzled look immediately dissolving into a careless smile; Steve could see right through the mask. He pulled Bucky into a quick hug, it didn’t last nearly as long as he needed. “Finally getting that home, huh Rogers?” Steve smiled, wiping rain off of his brow. 

“It’s about time,” he laughed, his voice covered by the crackling of the sky. The slash of lightning cast sharp shadows, somehow not managing to darken the celebratory mood. The second the boarding plank was propped up against the boat, the men began piling off. All of them careful not to slip on the quickly dampening board. Several of the younger soldiers, whooping with glee, hopped over the ships edge, landing with a roll before springing up cheerfully. Their friends tossing them their luggage. Steve shuffled off, standing close to Bucky at all times. “Any thoughts on a drink?” Bucky nodded enthusiastically.

“Oh, shit Steve, I haven’t had the chance to get wasted in too long, let’s drink the _night_ away.” His eyes were alight with anticipation, his grin nearly infectious.

“Sounds like a plan,” Steve hummed in agreement. They were on the dock now, the churning water underneath them peeking through the planks of the dock was frothy with life. The foam gathering on the poles before slowly slipping downwards, only to be crashed into by yet another wave. They walked the length of the dock and Steve wondered, in the back of his mind, if Bucky would get his old job back here. That was assuming they could find an apartment close enough to everything. A crewman walking towards the now empty ship shouldered his way past Steve, making him drop his luggage in the process. 

“Hey,” hollered Bucky, “watch where the _hell_ you’re going.” He spat the word hell, a protectiveness flaring up inside of him. At the camp, Steve was respected. He had been seen as a sort of a teacher’s pet, sure, but someone not to be messed with. Back out here, Steve was normal, and it was refreshing. To be jostled around and not treated like a small glass figurine, ready to topple and shatter at the slightest bump. Here in Brooklyn, rude and crude Brooklyn, he was going to be just like any other citizen. 

“It’s okay,” Steve said quickly, hoping to settle the anger bubbling up inside his partner. He stooped down to pick up his luggage, shaking some mud off the side where it had landed on its side.

“No it’s not okay,” Bucky seethed, “they need to pick on someone their own s—” He stopped, his gaze landing at the space where Steve would have been, had he been smaller. His green eyes, stirring with emotion, a sense of nostalgia flickered across his face. He tilted his chin upwards, his eyes travelling up Steve’s body, finding his face. “Hey Stevie,” he croaked weakly, looking at Steve as if it åwere his first time seeing him since the serum all over again. Steve smiled apologetically, realising all of the sudden just how instinctive Bucky’s reaction had been. Ready to jump in and protect. Well Steve was different now, and he could finally pull his own weight. They walked in silence.


	6. DRUNKEN NIGHTS

Bucky was drunk; stumbling and hiccupping and picking a fight with a light pole drunk. And Steve, having not thought anything through, had been the one to let it happen. They didn’t have any place to go, so while Steve sat, searching through a newspaper after newspaper for any buildings with unused apartments, Bucky was drinking his memory into oblivion. Steve circled a listing, flipped a page. Bucky fished through his pockets, pulling out a crumpled wad of bills. He stared at it helplessly before picking out four singles, he ran his slackened hands through his hair, still damp from the pouring rain they’d found themselves in half a block from the place. Looking for a quick place to duck away, they had found this diner, close to the docks and filled with fellow veterans, they had felt right at place. Bucky had quickly made himself acquainted with a celebratory drink, a term which apparently didn’t have a limit.

“S— Stevee.” Steve looked up, holding back a smile. “What’ve y— Wher’re we all both gonna stay?” Bucky looked concerned, absolutely lost. Steve had spent many nights out with Bucky, sipping from beers bought off of a store owner looking to turn a profit through some underage kids. Steve had come to know the quiet intensity that burned deep underneath his surface, finally bubbling forth, albeit in a sloppy way. The flushed cheeks, glazed eyes, putty hands sort of sloppy. Not that Steve minded. He had always found it cute. And now that he was able to help wheel Bucky back to their apartment, he didn’t need to monitor his boyfriends fun. He could drag him back in the ungodly hours of the night to— where? They didn’t have a home yet. Steve turned to the paper, clearing his throat with a quiet cough. 

“I— uh, I found a place,” Steve offered, adding a soft “maybe” after a pause.

“Sh— shitttt yea,” Bucky said, tugging his voice down to what he must’ve thought was a whisper as the bartender passed, the same one who had given him a warning already. He looked at Steve, wide eyed, as if he had just escaped a close call. “I’m gonna date you so hard.” Steve laughed. 

“We’re already dating,” he whispered, smiling and leaning in so their faces were nearly touching, he relished the look of unbridled joy that crossed across Bucky’s face as he heard this. “Have been since we were seventeen.” Bucky’s loose—fingered hand found its way to Steve’s arm, he leaned closer still, his hand tightening as if he were worried he’d topple down to the wooden floor underfoot. 

“That’s _gay_ ,” he giggled, he quickly hushed himself, almost as if suddenly becoming aware of the public setting. He pulled himself away, shooting Steve a loopy grin. “I like it though. I like _you._ ” 

“I should hope so,” Steve teased, poking Bucky in the side, then immediately regretting it as he had to jump to catch his giggling mess of a boyfriend from collapsing on the ground. He righted him on the bar stool. The crowded bar paid no attention to Steve’s nearly lingering hand, each person too involved in their alcohol heavy night. They were busy belting out songs and cheering along in celebration to the end of the war.

“I’ve got a secret,” Bucky cooed in a singsong voice. He leaned into Steve’s hand. “I’ve got a secret and you’re gonna goddamn _love_ it.” Steve laughed, nodding along as if he were listening to a kid’s nonsense babbling. Bucky was mumbling to himself, his words too slurred to be discernable. Bucky’s face suddenly paled, he grabbed Steve’s leg for balance as his head tossed itself forwards, he retched on the hardwood floor below. Steve grimaced.

“You okay?” Steve righted Bucky, grabbed a napkin and began dabbing at his sweaty forehead and around his mouth. Bucky’s eyes were fluttering, Steve cursed himself for letting Bucky get this wasted. On their first night back too. “Buck, let’s get going, grab your money.”

“N— no, no, no,” Bucky whined dejectedly, his shoulders drooping, looking almost like a marionette with the strings cut loose, leaving the whole thing to slump into a hopelessly lost looking pile. “One more. Ple—please, Stevie.” He blinked up earnestly. Steve took a look at his friend, his lightly scarred hands peeking through his tattered jacket, beard stubble already beginning to show, boots covered in mud from countless treks and days spent training; all signs of a life of stresses that had all melted away in a matter of hours. They’d have to build themselves back up tomorrow. Steve certainly wasn’t going to help in making his hangover worse in what was already going to be an odd day of adjustment. 

“Fine.” He relented. “One.” 

“You’retheb— bestest,” Bucky said quickly, his words all mixing into a pile of indistinguishable mush the second they left his mouth. “I— excuseeee me,” he called out, much too loud, he seemed to realise and let out a small yelp, peering around to make sure no one was staring before turning to the bartender who had walked over and was waiting patiently. “Iv’ got— see I can give you some,” he stopped, looking at the crumpled tens and singles, “about five bucks. Can we—” Bucky trailed off, blinking helplessly as the word eluded the grasp of his mind. “Give, trade, sellme some? Whiskme.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for an answer, pulling off a poor attempt at the suave face he could always don to get any gal to swoon in moments. Apparently, slurred words and stumbling hands took away from the sex appeal because all she did was shoot Steve a look of disbelief. 

“Sure?” She said flatly, looking slightly disapproving. Steve checked to make sure Bucky wasn’t looking before mouthing the word _‘Water’_ at her. She shot him a subtle thumbs up, taking a small of piles of money Bucky thrusted in her direction as she went to go get his drink. Bucky slumped onto the bar, his eyebrows lifting and raising, his eyes staring at the polished wooden countertop. In a moment, a glass with a clear liquid was placed in front of Bucky. He picked it up and tossed back his head as he took a gulp. He was too drunk to tell apart a room of strangers from one of friends, was in no place to distinguish between his adorably uttered phrase of _whiskme_ and water. 

“Hey,” Steve said softly, placing a hand on Bucky’s shoulder as he reached out for the drink before him. Bucky’s reaction was delayed, his movements soggy with the alcohol fogging his sight, but he turned eventually, his finger tracing circles along the rim of the glass. “Want to maybe catch a place to sleep after this?”

“Sleep.” Bucky giggled before continuing in a singsong voice. “With _youuuuu_.” Steve furrowed his brow, resolving to not let his partner get this drunk in public ever again. Too many close calls were coming into play. Earlier that night, Bucky had nearly leaned in for a kiss— or rather, he _had_ leaned in for a kiss, and he had nearly gotten it. Bucky sipped from his cup of water, wrinkling his nose up before noticing Steve again, he sent him a sloppy wink. “Get it?” He began. “Becauseyou’re— we’re”

“No, no, no,” Steve shushed, helping him off the barstool and leaving a very generous tip for the worker. “Let’s go get you to bed.” Bucky, unable to focus on multiple things at once at the moment, quieted up, devoting his attention to the tricky task of balancing. Steve picked up their bags, tucking the newspaper into his pocket. Bucky stumbled, leaning into Steve, grabbing his jacket in a fistful. He noticed a soldier from his camp shoot the pair an annoyed look. Steve nodded a hello, picking his way through the crowd, and brought the two to the door, half leading, half carrying Bucky. Steve shouldered it open, and they stumbled into an alleyway as drizzling rain, really no more than heavy mist, greeted them. The door shut, leaving the air suddenly still— quiet. Steve knew of a hotel just a few blocks down, and began walking; Bucky’s heavy footed and slack necked self following in his wake. They passed several strangers, each time one of them would shoulder past Steve, Bucky would drunkenly yell at them to back off.

“Pick up someon’ your _own_ size,” he snapped, glaring at the bearded man. The stranger stumbled past, nearly as drunk as Bucky, just as all the passersby had been so far. It was— what time? Steve checked his watch, the face cracked but still readable— nearly three in the morning. Everyone who was out at this time was wasted, leaning to walls, pretending they were fully capable of standing themselves. He could hear faint cheering from nearly every building, inhabitants ecstatic to have their families whole again. “St—sevie,” Bucky mumbled, wiping the collected water droplets from his face with the back of his hand. “I’vegott’ go.” 

“I know, honey,” Steve said quietly, shooting an anxious glance over his shoulder. “We’re so close.” One block away, they passed a bigger bar, a better known one. The cheering phased in and out with the opening and closing of the door, several individuals were struggling to flag down cars that weren’t out at this time, others were retching in the street. Another drunk walked past, shoving Steve. Steve attempted to side—step, but with luggage on one arm and a nearly sleeping boyfriend on the other, he wasn’t as successful as he had hoped to be.

“Hey!” shouted Bucky, pulling himself from Steve and facing the man. “Leave him _‘lone_.” The man growled, his red nose peeking out from underneath his cap, the collar of his jacket turned up in a shield against the weather. 

“I didn’ toushhim,” snapped the stranger, his words slurring out, melting to the air as they left his mouth. He continued walking and Steve let out a breath. As happy as he was to have Bucky standing up for him, he wasn’t sure if he was in any state to fight. While Bucky had been drinking his drowsiness away all night, Steve’s had set in, albeit slowly, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse onto a bed and let his eyelids grow heavy, glue shut, and his breathing to deepen. Steve shook his head. The man was half a yard past them now.

“You did!” Bucky protested, Steve stopped, sighing. “Cow— coward.” He hiccupped and continued to glare at the man. He, much to Steve’s dismay, stopped. Steve supposed he could take him if it came down to it, but still, hurting a civilian wasn’t something he ever wanted to do.

“Look,” Steve began, dropping the luggage and holding his hands up. “Sir, we don’t want any trouble.”

“Don’t pick on him,” Bucky cried, worrying his hands through his hair, suddenly in apparent stress at the very thought of Steve being hurt. “You’re a stupid h—” he cut himself off as he stumbled. Regaining his footing, he leaned against the brick wall. “You’re ‘fraid to _lose_.” The man, already walking back towards them, was shooting a glare at Bucky.

“Thas big talk fo’ a smallone.” His words were hardly distinguishable, and his speaking slowed halfway through the word _’for.’_ His sloppy movements led Steve to hope he could just pull Bucky away from the fight. The man stumbled nearer and Steve tugged Bucky towards him. Or— he tried. Steve was surprised at just how firmly Bucky had planted himself on the ground. Steve realised the bags had been in a puddle, and quickly stooped to pick them up, hearing a hollar just as he had safely stacked them in a drier area. 

“Shit,” Steve muttered, trying to leap in and break apart the poor excuse of a fight. Stumbling and disoriented, the two were swinging punches and walking circles around each other. Bucky’s movements resembled nothing of the sober fighting partner he knew, the one who could actually beat him on occasion. He tried to pry the two apart, all while avoiding the sloppily thrown fists. Steve managed to pull Bucky back, who took several quickening steps back before landing in a sad pile on the pavement. Steve turned to the man and caught his hands, slowly lowering them. “Look just say sorry and we’ll be on our way.” 

“Over my dea’ body, boy,” he coughed, Steve felt anger flare up, wanting to fight the man and get him to apologise to Bucky. But he had a friend to get inside right now. The wind was growing icier and neither of them needed to catch a cold. Steve picked up the bags and hoisted a crying Bucky to his feet, sighing heavily. “Fuck you,” snapped the drunk, wheeling around and making what he must have imagined as a dramatic exit. Bucky sent what was probably the most withering stare he could manage, the anger was softened by the tears pooling in his eyes. Steve heard his incessant grumbling long after the man had rounded the corner into an alley Steve knew led to a dead end. He spotted the flickering _24 HOUR_ hotel sign above the storefront and, with a sigh of relief, headed inside.


	7. HOTEL TALK

Bucky was on the hotel bed, legs crossed and hands in his lap. He was staring gloomily at the floor, tiny wet streaks left from the occasional tear and, despite Steve’s prodding, hadn’t given a reason as to why. His hair fell down just past his eyes now, all sense of style long since lost with the night they had been through. Steve had bought a toothbrush at the hotel’s front desk, along with other toiletries they might need. He wasn’t sure how long they’d be here. At least they had enough clothes to last them a good week before they’d need to have anything washed. 

“Bucky,” Steve said around the toothbrush, “let’s get you undressed.”

“S’ok _ay_ ,” he mumbled, not moving. Steve doubted Bucky even be able to get himself undressed if he tried. He sighed, putting down his toothbrush and pinching the bridge of his nose, wondering when he’d had to grow up to quickly, he was still a kid— _Bucky_ was still a kid. They didn’t need to be picking their way through the world on their own. Steve put his toothbrush on the countertop and the tiny tap felt loud in the small room. Bucky didn’t react, didn’t raise his eyes. Steve made his way to the bed— or rather, the two separate beds they had pushed together, and sat on the edge. He put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?” He asked softly.

“I h—” he hiccupped, “had him on the ropes.” 

“You can talk if you want,” Steve said softly, wiping the tears from Bucky’s cheeks, letting a face, red from crying, show. Steve’s shoulders drooped and a feeling of helplessness washed over him like a wave, submerging his thoughts, leaving them waterlogged and heavy. His hand reached for Bucky’s but fell short, landing instead on the comforter. Steve tugged at a string coming undone on the bed’s comforter, wishing he could bridge the tiny gap between them, make it like it was when they were kids. War left you distant, screaming in your own mind, your pleas falling on your own deaf ears. Steve knew how Bucky felt. He knew all too well. He just wished he knew how to get past this shell shock. “I’m here for you.” 

“ _Thas’_ th’ thing.’ Bucky’s gaze fell to his lap, playing with his fingers. “M’ s’posed to be there for _you_.” 

“But you are.” Steve frowned. “You’ve always been there for me.” Bucky furrowed his brow, thinking carefully before opening his mouth and letting more words tumble out in a jumbled, alcohol—induced mess.

“Yeah, butthat was beforee.” Bucky fell back, his hair falling from his face, uncovering his puffy, glazed over eyes as he stared at the popcorn ceiling overhead. “Now you’r all strong and shit.” The reason for all the sudden post—fight tears dawned on Steve in an instant, but didn’t stop Bucky from his deeper explanation. “A’n now you—” Bucky choked on the words. “Y’don’t need me, and you’re gon’ leave me for some gal because now you don’t—” he cut himself off again, let out a tiny sob. Steve clicked with his tongue, unsure of how to show drunk Bucky just how much he loved him, and seeing as he wouldn’t remember this, Steve knew he’d have to repeat himself the next morning.

“I love you,” Steve promised, reaching for both of Bucky’s hands, clammy from the night. Steve wondered if a shower would be out of the question. He pulled Bucky into a sitting position again, pushing several strands from his brow and looking into his eyes. Steve shifted closer, kissing his brow softly. Bucky leaned into his touch, his movements and mannerisms so natural and predictable to Steve, he was reminded of just how much of his life had been spent with Bucky: scraped knees and stolen food, nights spent watching the sun set, neither of them daring to say how they felt; midday freetime occupied by watching the clouds pass by, both of them wishing so desperately that the other had the same condemnable feelings; watching the sunset, fidgeting with elation because now they both _knew_. They sat on the bed, their foreheads pressed together. Bucky’s slack posture make Steve have to bend just a little farther downwards than usual. 

“M’ sorry,” Bucky’s voice was a soggy whisper at this point, his breath still tinged with alcohol, but beginning to fade in favor of sleep. “I like yo’ too much, don’t leav’me.”

“I love you because of who you are, not because you help me. I love the man who helped me for the _fact_ that he was the type to help someone so helplessly small without thinking. My love with you was never— and won’t ever be— conditional.” Bucky let out a happy hum, breaking out into a giggle.

“Tha’s good.” He hiccupped. 

“Let’s get you undressed.” Bucky nodded slowly, sluggishly. Steve shifted Bucky so he was sitting between his legs, and began unbuttoning his shirt, discarding it when he was properly done. It fell to the floor in a heap, slowly letting out the air it had gathered underneath. Steve took off Bucky’s dirty undershirt, leaving him shivering in the cold, his arm hairs already beginning to stand on end. Steve rubbed Bucky’s upper arm, hoping to provide at least a measly amount of warmth. He looked at the few scars that he’d accumulated over the span of the war. Not many, as he’d been lucky compared to most. He took off Bucky’s watch, his belt, helped him shimmy out of his pants, emptied his pockets, did everything they needed to get ready. 

With shoes on the floor and one sock slung over the handle of the cheaply made dresser, Bucky was finally ready. He had refused to brush his teeth, but Steve had just shrugged in lieu of fighting. The two had crawled under the covers, switching off the light, and had laid there, illuminated by the pinstripes of light that snuck through the blinds. Steve could see Bucky’s eyes slip shut, too tired, too drunk to pay any mind to Steve. Their hands and legs already tangled together, Steve let out a slow breath and let himself drift. 


	8. STORMY NIGHTS

Steve had fallen into an uneasy sleep, listening to the fading in and out noises of the storm outside. Deep rumbles of thunder were shaking the entire building; cracking flashes of light casting shadows across the tiny room; patters of rain turning to pelting thuds, coming down in bucketfuls, then slowly fading to nothing. Steve’s headache had returned yet again. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable, and nearly every time he drifted off, he found himself bolting up in bed, drenched in water, his clothes clinging to his frame. And then, just like that, they were dry, and so was he. Steve gave up on sleeping after two hours of this. He’d keep whispering to himself, reminding the room that they were just nightmares, finding little comfort in the fact that it was all in his head. It was nearly six in the morning, the constant starts had left his nerves shot. He was too anxious to even kid himself into trying to sleep. He lifted the covers, shimmying out, hoping not to wake Bucky. His foot sank into the waterlogged floor. Steve yelped, jerking his leg upwards. It came up dripping— then nothing. He looked at the carpet cautiously as he slowly brought his foot back to the floor. It was bone—dry. 

“Get it together, Rogers,” Steve growled under his breath. “Christ.” He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling them come away dripping with water, cold and crisp. Steve paused, his hand on his neck, swearing he could feel water pelting down onto his head, the back of his hand, his shoulders. He waited, feeling his headache worsen then suddenly recede. Steve pushed himself up, walking to the bathroom. He knew he had painkillers in one of his bags somewhere. It was mostly a placebo effect, he knew that. Peggy had slipped him a bottle from the medical tent, warning him of their strength, hoping that they would be exactly what he needed. He’d taken some, found that even the strongest stuff they could get their hands on had a dismal effect on him. Small, however, was better than nothing. He hadn’t been able to kick the habit. 

Steve dug through his bag, pushing aside his money, his important papers, his clothes, his photos, his— Steve let out a sigh of relief, pulling the bottle from the bag. He shook it, it was nearly empty. He popped the top open, dropping two into his palm and swallowing them, hoping they would set in soon. He heard a crack of thunder, the noise rattled around the room, bouncing off the walls. Steve felt rain. He dropped the pill bottle in shock, it fell soundlessly on the metallic surface underfoot. 

“Steve?” He heard a voice from below. Steve turned, he saw James, through layers of rain, peering through their open window two stories down. “Are you _trying_ to get sick?” His concern was masked by a laugh. Steve was standing on the fire escape, looking at the watery streets below. He looked at his feet, through the lattice of metal underneath his boots. Steve blinked a few times, unsure of why he felt so suddenly unnerved. He pushed the discomfort away. 

“Sorry,” Steve said distractadely, his headache already fading. “I guess I just zoned out.” He looked around. Just as he was about to ask why he was out here, the memories came back to him and the question died on his lips. They had gone to the tourist part of town, full of overpriced candy and novelty items. James had been nervous and fidgety, but willing to face his fears of crowds. Steve had been proud of him and the progress he’d been making lately with other people. That pride had dissipated into a frantic sympathy when James had had a nervous breakdown at a candy apple store. He had accused a bewildered lady of being a spy for Hydra, screaming at her and leaving her dreadfully pale. They’d come back here, and James had been on the floor for several hours, muttering to himself in Russian, unresponsive to Steve. Steve had left to clear his head, the muttering and frantic whirring of the arm had given him a migraine. He’d lost track of the time and… 

“You’ll get sick,” James called up. “Come on down, I’ve made us tea.” Steve hugged his thin jacket closer to his shoulders as a crack of thunder came from overhead. He made his way down the steep set of stairs, checking his watch. It’d been four hours. Steve wondered how long it had taken James to compose himself this thoroughly. Here he was, post—breakdown, looking chipper and carefree, his hands on the windowsill keeping him firmly anchored as he leaned over the wall’s divide and poked his head into the rain. Steve stopped just outside their window, his gaze holding James’. He felt a tinge of worry for his boyfriend.

James grinned, his hair, heavy with rain, clinging to the stubble along his jawline. Water dripped from his head, travelled downwards to frame his red and swollen eyes, down the tip of his rubbed raw nose. Steve’s chest ached when James smiled, a smile that didn’t fool either of them. Steve opened his mouth but closed it, unsure of what to say. He was faced with a silence, a silence that could have been broken had his mind not been left so screamingly blank at the sight of his boyfriend. He wanted to reach out and hug him, make it all better. Make it all stop hurting. Steve shivered in the coolness that was starting to soak his skin. 

“Get _in_ here,” James laughed, his hands snaking forwards to grab Steve and pull him forwards. Steve stepped over the window sill, tumbling forwards landing in a soggy heap on the bed. The springs sighed under their joined weight. Steve sat up, James was laughing now, wiping the heavy droplets of rain from his skin and flicking it to the floor. He plucked his hair from where it had clung to his face. He looked at Steve and for a moment the joy faltered, but only for a moment. He swallowed and cleared his throat. “So,” he laughed uneasily. “Tea?” Before Steve could respond, James had hopped off of the bed. In a single graceful moment, it seemed, he was in the kitchen. He reappeared, holding two steaming mugs and making his way back to the bed. Steve was closing the window now, straining against the howling winds. It clicked into place, and Steve took his mug. It was yellow, his favourite colour. James’ was green. 

“Are we going to talk about it?” Steve asked. James didn’t respond immediately, just continued to look at his swirling drink with the same cheerful eyes. Steve nearly thought that he hadn’t heard him, but then James’ shoulders slipped, dragging downwards as if gravity were targeting them specifically. His head fell slightly. He peered upwards at Steve.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, looking utterly crestfallen. The steam of the tea leaving droplets on his face. His hair fell from where it had been tucked behind his ear and shrouded Steve’s view of his face. “I don’t know what happened. I thought I could handle it.”

“No, no, no,” he rushed to assure, knowing that James wasn’t ready to talk about it. He could see it in the stiff way he was suddenly holding himself. “I just want to make sure,” Steve said. “I want to be there for you.” 

“Thanks,” James said, not sounding like he meant it. He was tracing circles around the rim of the mug with his metallic fingertip. “I guess we’ll just have to go back to small progresses.” 

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, nodding. “Like dinners out.” He hugged the mug closer to himself, feeling the warmth radiate through his hands and the thin fabric of his soaking shirt to his chest.

“And going to get groceries,” James said, his eyes shifting to the piece of paper on their dresser, a list of places they’d slowly compiled up in the year since they’d started seeing a therapist. It had helped. _‘Tiny victories,’_ she’d say, _‘tiny steps towards betterment.’_ This had just been too big of a step, too far outside the comfort zone. “Movies,” he said softly, whispering more to himself than to Steve now. James blinked a few times, as if waking from a deep sleep, his gaze cleared. He looked at Steve, smiled. “Let’s dry you off, yea?”

“I—” Steve didn’t want to drop the topic this easily. He caught himself. “Yeah.” He could see a pleading look in James’ eyes; he wasn’t ready to talk about this, not yet. Steve understood. He was still left a little shocked from the war and the things he’d been through too. The things he’d seen. He sure as hell wasn’t ready to talk about all of it yet. In time, maybe. But not yet. So he let James drop it, let him get up and head to the bathroom, green mug steaming in his hand. Steve was left staring at the spot his boyfriend had been sitting at moments before, the small indentation he’d left. Steve could feel the bed’s comforter dampening underneath him, in the back of his mind, he wondered it he should get up. Probably. He wondered if it really mattered. Probably not.

Steve blinked a few times, wondering why they hadn’t listened to the list. The safe places, the tiny steps, the small victories. It was a stupid mistake. A stupid goddamn preventable mistake. He should’ve called Natasha. She spoke Russian. She could’ve helped. Steve put the mug in his cross—legged lap. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, squeezing them shut, unable to erase the lady’s face from his mind. Her shocked face, pale as a sheet, her hands shaking as James hollered at her and called her a spy and a traitor. The quick escalation had not stopped until James had been reduced to a pile of tears and Russian mutterings. Steve had felt so helpless, it had happened so quickly. What had caused it? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t even sure if James knew. Steve dropped his hands down and rested his elbows atop his knees. The war. It’d been on Steve’s mind lately., He thought about the dreams he’d been having. He had half a mind to talk to Banner about it. 

“Here you go,” James said. He dropped several white towels in a pile before Steve, reclaiming his spot. He didn’t have his green mug. Steve picked up a towel and began shaking water droplets from his hair, wiping off his face and pulling the material back until he came to a stop at the base of his neck. He reached back and tugged his shirt off, throwing it to the floor where a pile of clothes had begun to accumulate over the past few days. He wiped off his chest and left the damp towel in the pile on the floor when he was done. He felt a question rise to the back of his throat—he made a small sound. James looked up. He had enough to worry about, Steve didn’t want to throw a trip on him, not after a breakdown. Steve coughed softly, letting out a slow breath.

“James?” Steve was fiddling with his hands now, tugging on his fingers and running them over each other as he pressed his palms together. 

“Yeah?” James looked hesitant. 

“I think we might need to see if we can look into talking to Banner. About me passing out and the headaches. All that stuff.” Steve looked up to see James relax, regaining his composure of ease. “I know that that’s been worrying you.”

“Banner?” James quirked his head to the side. “I don’t see why not.” He grabbed a towel from the pile on the bed and began shaking his hair around inside of it, his brisk movements drying it quickly.

“I just—” Steve began slowly. “I know you might be on edge. You don’t have to come.”

“Oh,” James said, stopping. He pulled the towel from his eyes and looked at Steve, his brow furrowed in thought. “You mean go to Stark’s place?” Steve nodded. James stayed frozen for a few beats. His jaw set and his eyes flashed with determination. “I’ll go.”

“You can stay,” Steve assured. “I know you don’t like going places.” 

“No, no, I need to— I’ve gotta get used to stuff like this. Besides, that’s a safe place.” 

“Thanks,” Steve smiled, wondering if James was only going to prove to himself that he _could_. To prove that he was okay. “We can drive to Stark Tower,” he offered, intertwining his fingers with James’. “We have that floor, we could spend a weekend up there.”

“Sure,” nodded James. “We’ll get you fixed up.” Steve leaned into James, finally starting to warm up now that he was fully dried. He picked up the mug from his lap and took a deep breath of his tea, holding it close and putting his head on James’ shoulder. James tugged the towel from his head, tossing it to the floor. His free hand twined around Steve’s waist, holding him close. The cold metal was a shock to his bare skin, but he didn’t mind. He welcomed it, leaning into the coolness.

“Thanks.”


	9. RECONCILING

Steve woke up, a sweet herbal taste thick in his mouth. He heard the sputtering rumbles of cars passing by, the sound swelling and bringing along with it the voices of the riders, finishing off with a decrescendo of the symphony of noise. Steve lay there, listening to the noises pass by. The occasional call of a bird or bark of a dog was a familiar sound of home, the array of noises that brought him such comfort. He opened his eyes to see Bucky, fast asleep. His face was scrunched, as if he’d just tasted something sour. Steve smiled. Steve had spent enough nights with Bucky to know that his hangovers hit hard then faded quickly, meaning Steve would only have to put up with his endearingly whiny boyfriend for an hour or two. He reached out, gently shaking him awake. Bucky groaned.

“Steve?” His eyes fluttered open, green eyes slowly finding Steve’s face. He looked tired, and Steve was almost tempted to let him sleep again. 

“C’mon,” Steve hummed sleepily, feeling as tired as Bucky looked. The whole lack of actual resting in between one day and the next was making him as mentally tired as could be expected. “You’ve gotta shower.” Bucky groaned out a no. “And drink and eat.” Steve sat up and, much to Bucky’s distress, pulled his hand off of his arm. He stretched slowly before bending down to kiss Bucky’s cheek. Bucky rolled to his back, looking up at Steve, smiling. Steve scrunched his nose up, using his free hand to cover Bucky’s mouth. “Damn,” he laughed. “Brush your teeth.” Bucky’s eyes narrowed and he weakly pushed Steve away, feigning hurt.

“I’m breaking up with you,” Bucky grumbled. Steve giggled, sliding off the bed and realized that his painkillers were on the floor. He squatted down, making sure nothing else had fallen. He stood back up, tossing it into his bag. Bucky had sat up, one leg was out from under the tangle of sheets and covers, the other was buried underneath. He put his elbows on the bed, leaning forwards and holding his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes. Steve turned, running his hands through his hair, unsuccessful in his attempt to get it to lay flat. He fumbled around the countertop, feeling rather than looking for the cup, his hand collided and it clattered over lightly. He filled it with water. 

“Here.” He walked back to the bed and sat on the corner, feeling it dip under his weight. He outstretched his hand, willing Bucky to sit up with a lingering touch on the bottom of his jawline and slowly lifting. Bucky reluctantly complied, leaning into Steve’s touch. Bucky’s movements were slow and groggy as he reached to take the cup from Steve’s hand. Steve watched him raise it to his chapped lips, thinking of how often Bucky had had to hold a cup up to Steve’s cut and bleeding lips, torn from an alley fight he had been much too small to get himself into. Bucky draped himself onto Steve dramatically, whining.

“My head feels like sludge,” he groaned, burying his face into Steve’s shirt. Steve ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair absentmindedly. He turned and left a kiss on the top of his head. Steve felt a flicker of memories surface, feeling far too distant to have been from last night. He remembered what Bucky had said. He bit his lower lip, rolling it between his teeth, trying to decide if he should bring it up. He remembered when Bucky had confessed his feelings to him and let out a breath. _‘No secrets, no judgement, no holding back,’_ that’s what he had said as he’d tapped his foot and glanced over his shoulder with every fidget, what he had said before the words had come tumbling out. The words that said he’d loved him for years and that it wasn’t going away. That was the first time Steve ever seen him so vulnerable. It only seemed fitting that the phrase would replay just after Steve had seen him in a similar state for the second time. 

“Bucky,” he wondered aloud, his voice seemed to be a standalone noise in the small room, “are you scared?” The sentence was followed by a near deafening silence. He could only just barely make out the small taps of water slipping from the faucet. Steve wondered why Brooklyn chose now of all times to be silent. 

“Of you not lowering your voice?” Bucky groaned, putting his empty cup on the bed and gripping Steve’s shirt in a fistful. “Abso—fuckin—lutely terrified.” Steve laughed, knowing he should’ve specified. Bucky, as usual, could read Steve like a book, wide open with words printed on his skin in a language only he seemed to be able to read. He pulled away, staring at Steve with such a sudden intensity that Steve wondered if he were really trying to read the story of last night right off of his surface. “What happened last night?” Bucky tilted his head to the side, grimacing at the movement momentarily, the flash of pain on his face immediately masked by concern. “Did someone hurt you— Stevie, who do I need to beat up?” A smile broke out across his face, somewhat forced through the hangover. “I’ll challenge whoever hurt you to a dance—off.” Steve laughed lightly.

“Well, uh,” his gaze fell to his hands in his lap, he played with his fingers. “That might be what it’s about.” Bucky’s smile faltered in his confusion. “N—not a dance off. But a fight.” Bucky waited patiently for Steve to continue. “You mentioned a few things last night,” Steve raised his gaze to meet Bucky’s. “A—And it’s not a big deal but I just want to make sure that no one’s unhappy because this—”

“Are you nervous that I’m out of your league?” Bucky asked, his concerned tone nearly convincing. “Because I’m absolutely aware of that fact and it’s _okay_ , someone in this relationship was bound to be hotter.” Steve shoved him lightly, rolling his eyes.

“You said you felt unimportant.” Steve pushed the words out quickly, before he could stop himself or even allow a moment to think. “Because of the serum.”

“Oh, this is a feelings thing,” Bucky said quietly. “Look— Stevie, I’m sorry I told you about that stuff. I still love you and nothing’s gonna change that and I—”

“You don’t need to apologise,” Steve hurried, laughing a quiet sorry for cutting him off before starting again. “I think it’s me that just needs to specify a few things.” Bucky pulled his legs closer to himself, crossing them and holding his hands in his lap. He nodded slowly. Steve could tell he was trying to bury the hangover deep down in order to pay attention. Steve made sure to talk quietly, pacing himself through the small speech he’d spent much of the sleepless night before planning out. “My love for you isn’t conditional, it never has been. I love you for you and for who you are, not because you saved my stupid ass from bleeding out in a back alley more times than I can count. You think I’m going to leave you because I don’t _’need you’_ now.” Steve let out a humorless laugh at the very thought of him not needing his Bucky. “Buck, we just survived a war. I need you now more than ever. I can’t live without you.”

“I— I know that,” Bucky said slowly, drawing out each word in the blatant uncertainty that crossed he was trying so desperately to hide. He let out a breath, slowly slumping downwards. “I just don’t know what I’d do without ya Stevie. And— and I keep feeling like you might leave me. Because you don’t need me to be there for you anymore or anything now that you’re all strong. I guess I’m used to seeing you as that little punk you used to be. Now you’re this big strong guy.” He laughed sourly. “I keep forgetting that you’re the same you. Ya know?”

“I understand,” Steve said, his voice coming out softly in his concentration. “I think you just need to realise that I’m the same person under all of this muscle. Even more of myself if anything.” Steve’s posture slipped. “It just makes me feel like you only date me to protect me, to make yourself feel strong.” When he was done there was a silence, Bucky was clearly thinking up a response. “Or something like that,” he said with a small tone. His chest tightened, and just as he felt an apology begin to play on his lips, Bucky spoke.

“Stevie,” Bucky sighed, he shifted slightly farther from Steve to stretch out his legs. “Remember when we were on the rooftop?” Bucky had fallen back on the bed to stretch his arms over his head, and his shirt rode up to reveal his stomach. Steve reminded himself to focus on the topic on hand. “When I said I liked you and shit?” 

“Yes?” 

“I still feel the same way.” Bucky chewed on this bottom lip, hesitating. “I still love ya Steve. I never want us to end.” He was pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes now, almost as if he were trying to rub out the sleep. “When you said you didn’t want me— that you weren’t like me, that was the worst night of my life. I’m just— I got used to tellin’ myself that me saving you from all those fights was me doing my part. _If I keep saving Steve he won’t leave me._ I never thought you’d want just me.” Steve blinked in surprise. Bucky moved his hands from his head to his shirt, and started to pick at the bottom hem, the nervous energy radiating off of himself nearly buzzing as he awaited Steve’s response.

“You thought I only dated you because I owed you one?” He asked after a moment of shock. “Buck, you’ve saved me more times than I could ever count. You’re a good person.” Steve leaned forward, grabbing Bucky’s hands and untwining the thread that he’d wrapped around his finger. He pulled Bucky up, facing him once more. “Bucky, I like you because you’re good. You’re nice and you let yourself get pounded just so I wouldn’t walk home all battered up by myself.” Bucky laughed softly, but he didn’t raise his gaze to meet Steve’s. Steve grabbed his chin and tilted it up, and almost with reluctance, Bucky looked up. Steve’s heart melted at the lost look in his eyes. “I _only_ want you, it has nothing to do with all I owe ya. I love your smiles, your eyes, hell, I even love the way your hands move. Everything about you is amazing.” Steve had officially coaxed a smile out of his boyfriend, small and hesitant, but genuine. “I don’t remember exactly what I said after we kissed. ’ _I can’t stop thinking about you?’_ That’s still true.” 


	10. A ROOFTOP CONFESSION

A silence that had fallen over the two that night while they were sitting up on the rooftop, each silently tending to the scrapes they had accumulated earlier that hour. It had been odd seeing as Bucky never knew how to shut his mouth and was usually passionately bubbling over. He was always able to effortlessly fill every gap of conversation with whatever had caught his attention that day. Oddly enough, tonight was different. The sun had long since given way to the stars, far and few inbetween in the light pollution of the city, but existing nonetheless. In the dim and twinkling lights of surrounding buildings, the two sat, Bucky wrapping a bandage around his finger and cursing in his attempts to tend to his split lip, a difficult task without a mirror, even harder still with the pink-tipped cigarette he’d feverishly shove to his lips every few moments. Bucky’s jittering leg wouldn’t calm itself. Steve was holding the bottom end of a cold beer bottle to his eye, hoping the bruise wouldn’t look as bad as it felt. 

The sky had been left a deep purple, the clouds that dotted the scene a bright pink with blue shadows, a wonderful contrast that nearly took Steve’s breath away. He turned to Bucky to draw his attention to it, nearly disturbing the heavy quiet that had settled in the air. Steve slowly closed his mouth. Bucky was a ghostly white, his lips pulled into a thin line, one hand gripping his forearm where he’d gotten a cut. The jerk who’d cornered Steve today had had a knife. Bucky hadn’t even scolded him about getting into yet another tussle. He’d paused while checking Steve over for scrapes, paying no mind to his own bleeding face and hand, when he’d suddenly fallen silent. It had been enough of an argument for Steve to get Bucky to agree to come back up to the roof. He hadn’t wanted to. Steve played with the hem of his shirt, the smallest size they could find in stores, still too big. It hung on his slight frame, making him look small, but then again, what _didn’t_? They sat, their usual chatter replaced by the sound of the wind brushing past the buildings of the city. Steve could hear his breathing, coming out raspy, his breath not quite settled from the excitement of the scuffle.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said in a small voice, hating how tiny it sounded against the noise of the city on the streets below. A heavy gust of wind made Steve shudder in spite of the warm air. He hugged his arms close to himself. “I didn’t mean to ruin your date.” Bucky coughed in surprise, wincing and touching a his ribs where he’d been punched down. 

“No,” he laughed. “Nah punk, that wasn’t on you.” He leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck, he tossed the butt of the cig downwards to the streets below. “She was a bore anyways, didn’t even accept my offer for a smoke. Rude right?” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, shaking his head as if that had been a dealbreaker for him, although that hadn’t ever been a factor before. The brand’s name was faded, the cardboard corners wearing down, _marlboro_ printed on the front in flowy writing. Bucky pulled one out, putting the pink tipped end in his mouth and letting it hang loosely while he pulled a lighter from his pocket. He held his hand as a guard to the wind while he lit it. He handed his opened beer to Steve, offering him a sip. Steve took it somewhat reluctantly. 

“ _So_ rude,” he agreed, taking a sip. A pause. “I feel bad.” The truth felt metallic passing his lips, tasted like blood. Bucky’s eyes were glued to him, and Steve bit his lip. “You haven’t been on a date in ages. I messed it up.”

“I don’t need a girl.” Bucky stretched back, laying on the cement surface underneath, tossing his arms over his head to shield his eyes from the sunlight still lingering in the dusky sky. He took the cigarette out, letting a breath slip upwards. It twirled towards the sky in a silent dance, springing back and forth in the wind before dissolving. The two watched, entranced. “I’ve got you.” Steve rolled his eyes, chuckling.

“You need more than a best friend,” Steve teased, pulling his legs up from over the edge and crossing them. Bucky’s shoulders tensed but he didn’t say anything. Steve continued, laughing lightheartedly. “Not that it should be difficult. All the women want Barnes. They’ve all heard that you’re such a good kisser.”

“Wanna come try it out for yourself,” Bucky joked, making kissing noises before erupting in laughter. Steve joined in. Whatever was on Bucky’s mind must not be that bad; he was back to his normal, overly flirtatious self. “I’ll give you the friendship discount. One kiss, free of charge.” Steve shoved Bucky’s arm lightly, giggling behind his hand.

“And I need someone too. What happened to all those dates you’ve promised to set me up on?” Steve smiled at Bucky, some truth hidden behind the joking facade his statement held. He took a sip from the beer, having to tilt it back a good deal before he got any. They hadn’t exactly been drinking the last of the case sparingly these past few days. 

“Am I not good enough for you?” Bucky gasped, feigning offence. Steve let out a whoop of laughter at the very thought of it. Bucky laughed along, letting his hand fall to cover his face completely, the smoke trailing upwards from where the cigarette was held between two limp fingers. “Well gee,” Bucky sighed in an old timey voice. “Who will my dowry go to now?” The city lights had flickered on, and the once dark windows were alight. He could see muted silhouettes of figures moving inside some, vague shapes that always held Steve’s attention. Bucky sat up, quiet again. He was looking at Steve, who pretended not to notice. Bucky took a drag of his cigarette, leaving it in his mouth and letting the smoke pour out from the corners of his mouth. It lifted to the sky. 

“Your face doesn’t look too hot,” Steve remembered aloud. Turning to see Bucky, the glow of the city lights in the sky behind his head created a small halo of light.

“I absolutely take offence to that.” Bucky let out a slight gasp, raising a hand to his chest.

“Shut up and let me fix it.” Steve rolled his eyes. He pulled Bucky’s face close to his, needing to lean in close and to squint to see in the continuously thickening darkness of the night. Steve held his face in his hands, surveying it carefully. He reached down blindly, feeling for the small medical kit Bucky had bought from the store along with the beers earlier that week. They kept it up here in an old tackle box someone had left at the docks. Bucky had snatched it up before it could be reclaimed. Now it was their rooftop patching up supply box. He popped it open, still skimming Bucky’s skin with his eyes. Bucky took the cigarette from his mouth, letting out a slow breath, the smoke pooling out of his mouth like weightless fog. Through the veil of white, a troubled look passed over his eyes.

“Steve?” Bucky began. Steve hushed him and told him to stand still. He had found an alcohol wipe. He tore the packaging gently, discarding the thick paper over the rooftop’s edge, where it fluttered downwards. Steve payed it no more attention, he began wiping at the open cuts gingerly, watching the small fizzles build up in a matter of seconds around the open wounds. Steve tended to a cut on his jaw, scolding Bucky when he fidgeted. He swiped quickly at a small one, barely open, on his collarbone, as well as one near his temple. 

“Does your mouth hurt?” Steve nodded to the lip, split with the blood already crusting. Bucky nodded wordlessly. Steve sighed. “You don’t always need to give up your day to save me. I can manage myself.” Bucky’s gaze softened. His eyes were on Steve’s, while Steve’s were on his lips. He rolled it forwards with his thumb, looking carefully before gently tapping it with the wipe. “There.” Steve sat back and surveyed his friends face, checking to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. He grabbed a bandage, the only cut really needing to be covered being the one on his jaw. He huffed. “Shave more often will ya?” Bucky laughed, sounding as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Steve put the cream on, holding it in place with the bandaid. He had to press down hard to get it to stick to the short hair growing in patches. 

“Can I tell you something?” Bucky’s voice was hoarse, not holding any of the confidence that had possessed him moments ago. Steve rolled back into a more casual position. He could see, even through the night, that Bucky’s face was beginning to redden already. Which wasn’t saying much, seeing as how easily he would flush. 

“Yeah,” Steve shrugged, forcing a nonchalant look onto his face and trying to hide his interest that was so violently piqued. He faced Bucky, trying not to focus on the cut at his temple and how he probably should’ve put a bandaid there. _Pay attention Steve, he’s trying to tell you something._ The sky was darkening around them, the air warm. Bucky’s gaze fell to his lap and he began playing with his fingers. He let the _marlboro_ fall to the ground, the twinkling tip looked like a fallen star. Steve nearly had to squint to see him in the darkness. There weren’t many buildings in the city taller than this one, and therefore none to shine light down on them. “You can tell me anything.” The streetlights below flickered on, throwing Bucky’s face into contrast. His eyes were wide with a fear Steve had never seen in him before.

“I’m—” he stopped. Coughed. He paused, looking to be deep in thought, before continuing. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a while. And I’ve been terrified. But between us there are no secrets, no judgement, no holding back.” Steve nodded patiently. A part of him beginning to feel afraid, wondering what Bucky had done that was so bad that it warranted this speech. Well, for Bucky, anything more than three words in a row without a joke thrown in counted as solemnly serious. “I’m a homosexual.” Steve blinked. Bucky let out a shuddering breath and squared his shoulders. He held his hands in two small fists with bruised and battered knuckles. He looked smaller than Steve had ever seen him, his unbuttoned shirt—half tucked in—only lending to the disheveled appearance. His eyes were shut tight, almost as if he were afraid to see how Steve would react. 

“I—” Steve trailed off, the beer fell from his hand, rolling. The skittering sound was deafeningly loud. Steve could see that Bucky was shaking. “I didn’t know.” He stood up, gently touching Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky flinched slightly and Steve almost broke. He wasn’t sure how to respond. “I’m sorry.” He slid his hands to Bucky’s arms, urging his friend to stand. Bucky lifted himself up. He was shaking like the final leaf on a tree, about to topple over, about to give in. Steve walked him farther from the building’s edge. He had to tilt his head up to see Bucky’s eyes. He wasn’t sure how to respond, how to feel. He’d always been indifferent to this sort of thing but he’d never known a— Steve stopped himself. He took a look at Bucky, suddenly so frail, still awaiting a response. He needed a friend now more than ever. “I don’t care.” The words tumbled out, and Steve immediately knew they were true. “You can’t choose this sort of thing. You’ll always be my friend.” Bucky almost looked disappointed as Steve said this.

“That’s sorta the thing,” Bucky coughed, freeing one arm from Steve’s grip to rub the back of his neck stiffly. He refused to meet Steve’s gaze. “The— uh, reason I told you—” Bucky cleared his throat again. His eyes flitted around: left, right, up, anywhere but Steve. “I— See, I— We’re friends. I want to be— uh, honest with you. Dramatic shit like that.” Bucky pushed his hair back out of his eyes. It fell back down immediately. “Stupid hair,” he laughed. When Steve didn’t immediately join in, he fell silent. “I’m sorry Stevie, but I’ve known for five years. I’ve got to tell you. If I don’t say now—” his breath caught in his throat, he continued in a hoarse whisper, “I never will.” Steve almost asked what he meant, but felt he might already know. His heart began to pound, trying to break from his chest. Steve felt stuck, glued to the spot. He could only imagine how Bucky felt. “I like you Steve.” He had been expecting it, but it still hit him like a punch, rattling his bones and pushing the air from his lungs. Steve took a shuddering breath. Bucky’s shoulders slipped downwards. He was waiting again.

“You do?” Steve’s voice was small, afraid. He wasn’t sure how he’d wanted to sound, but it wasn’t like that. Bucky nodded, eyes shut. He opened them, looking at Steve. Steve’s face was blank, void of emotion. He wasn’t sure how to feel. 

“I’ve liked you for so long, Stevie,” Bucky began. “I’m so sorry. I wish I didn’t, I wish I weren’t this way. And I wish I didn’t have to bury myself in dates to distract myself from you. But you’re my closest pal. I had to tell you. _God_ , Steve you’re just so hot.” Steve felt his face flush. He shifted awkwardly under Bucky’s gaze. “I— sorry. I didn’t mean it— to say it like that— I shouldn’t have said that. Shit. I wanted to tell you—”

“Why would you tell me?” His voice wasn’t supposed to sound as hard at is was, but he could see Bucky recoil. Steve’s eyes widened and he began to make an apology but Bucky wasn’t paying attention. His gaze was on the floor as he rolled his lip between his teeth, his eyes tugged downwards into his thinking face. He nodded, looked up to meet Steve’s gaze, and grabbed him. Steve almost tried to jump back, almost tried to push away, but something made him stay. Frozen in fear maybe— at least, that’s what he’d tell himself later that night. Bucky pulled Steve close for a kiss. Steve wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. It was smoky, smoky and wet and clumsy. He didn’t know how to feel. He didn’t know how he felt when he didn’t immediately detest it. He unfroze. He made a sound against Bucky’s mouth, a mouth forced onto his, a yelp almost. He pushed him feebly. Bucky stumbled back a half step. Steve was breathing heavy, Bucky already looking appalled at what he’d done.

“I— oh— Steve I’m so sorry, I didn’t think.” The words came out of Bucky like water from a bursting dam. “I just thought— well I mean it’s never come up. And you never _really_ talk about gals. You’ve never dated— I— I’m—” Bucky trailed off, at a loss for words.

“I’m not— I’m into girls Buck,” Steve said in a steely, defensive voice. He felt an anger flare up in his stomach and immediately pushed it aside. “I thought you knew.” His gaze fell down, his voice grew smaller with each passing word. Nearly inaudible. “I thought you knew.” Bucky didn’t say anything. “I’m sorry. But I can’t be that way for you.”

“People beat you up because— all of those jokes. I just thought—” 

“I’m _not_ ,” Steve said, feeling tears spring to his eyes, the reason for that day’s fight suddenly fresh in his mind. His eyes were burning, already feeling too dry, his throat was refusing to breath. His tears were more from an overwhelming rush of emotions than anything else. Bucky’s face crumpled. He looked broken. “L—Look, I don’t care I r—really don’t. But it’s not like I’m not getting dates because I’m— I like girls.” Steve was breathing heavy now. His chest couldn’t quite fill with air the way it needed to. He took a raspy breath, feeling like a water gutter trying to drain while full of leaves. “You’re my best friend and even you think—” Steve stopped. He couldn’t breath. Bucky’s eyes widened when he realised. 

“I’m so sorry Steve.” He reached out but Steve took a step back, breathing heavy. He took slow and measured lungfuls of air. He felt lightheaded — dizzy. His hands were nearly shaking. He slowly sat down, Afraid of standing too high up while his lungs decided to take a day off. He was wheezing. Bucky looked like he wanted to help but wasn’t sure how to. Steve was sitting now, trying to grip the ground beneath himself. The cement beneath him was chipping his nails as he scraped at it. He slowed, focusing on his surroundings just like Bucky had taught him to, focusing on the pebble his hand had just encountered. He held it in an open palm, running his dusty fingers over it. His eyes were closed now, and he focused on the blare of car sirens, the shouts of the late night markets still making some final sales. He heard the skidding of the glass beer bottle as it rolled with the wind. Steve opened his eyes, his heart steadier, his breathing returned to normal. Bucky was squatting before him, his elbows resting on his knees. 

“Sorry,” Steve said in a hoarse voice. He was shaking still, but that was subsiding. He looked into Bucky’s eyes, as electric a blue as the sky had been earlier that day, deep and full. He looked worried. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Bucky was shaking his head now, pushing aside the look of disappointment quickly, Steve still managed a glimpse. He grabbed Steve’s upper arms and lifted him up. “I’ll get you home, let’s go.” Steve felt as if he had swallowed the rock he had been holding, or maybe as if he had swallowed seven rocks. He wished he knew why. He felt lost, confused. He wished he had known how to respond.


	11. THE AFTERMATH

Steve sat on the floor, his sketchbook open in his lap. He used wide strokes to give gestures of life to his drawing, to make every line purposeful. The charcoal in his hand stained his fingers whenever he would rest it on the paper. He was careful not to, but wasn’t always successful in his attempts. He glanced up at Bucky, who was currently going through his closet, standing in front of a floor length mirror they had bought second hand from a neighbor when they had been evicted. It had been overpriced, and she had been desperate, but Steve had implored Bucky to not haggle with the price. He had relented. Money was tight with everyone these days, and if they had money to spare they should do their best to help. The ornate frame was old, a beautiful golden paint stroked over the design. It had been from Sweden. Bucky had several piles of clothes going now. He tore off the button up shirt and tossed it to the _’Keep Pile.’_ The light was gentle and illuminated all of the stirred up dust from the air. 

“Do you want this?” Bucky held up a sweater. “It’s too small.” Steve hummed a yes, reaching out his hands. Bucky tossed it, and it jumped through the sunlight, interrupting the dust as it swirled before settling into it’s unmoving regularity once more. Steve held up the sweater, careful not to let it touch his sketchbook. Steve looked up at Bucky, who didn’t notice. He was looking in the mirror, trying to decide if a shirt fit. He twisted in the mirror, frowning and tugging on the sleeves. He unbuttoned it, pausing halfway through and looked at Steve. Steve immediately looked away, his face turning red. Bucky had caught him staring several times in the past few days. Steve wasn’t sure what to say, how to bring it up. The smile slipped from Bucky’s face and his jaw set. Steve busied himself.

He took off his shirt, putting the sweater on, tugging it over his head and letting it fall to his waist. He pulled his hands through the openings, pushing back the sleeves only to have them fall back down. He slouched against the wall, sliding deeper into the floor, letting his nose touch the sweater. It smelt like Bucky. Like water and salt and sweat and like the streets the two had spent every day of their childhood growing up on. The sleeves went past his fingertips, covered his hands in their entirety, Steve grumbled but wasn’t mad. The past few days he’d hardly slept, he’d been thinking. Thinking about what Bucky had said, thinking about how he’d responded. How he now wished he’d responded. Bucky tossed a vest into the _’It Doesn’t Fit Me But Not Even Steve Would Be Caught Dead Wearing That’_ pile, the donate pile. Steve grimaced at the pattern and made a retching sound. Bucky laughed, reaching for the next item. 

“So what’re we gonna do with the money we make?” Steve asked, closing his sketchbook and hugging it close to his chest, already regretting wearing a sweater in the summer. Good thing it wasn’t that heavy. “Go buy some food? See a film? A frame to cover that hole you put in the wall that your mom doesn’t know about?” Bucky snorted, rolling his eyes.

“You _wish,_ Rogers.” He looked in the mirror and pushed his hair back, popped the collar of the shirt he was wearing now. “I’m gonna go woo a girl, get her to fall head over _heels_ for me. Take her to the nicest place in town.” Steve laughed, feeling guilty at the routine they had already fallen into, pretending that nothing had happened. And it’s not like Bucky was only saying this to keep up appearances either. The entire apartment was deserted. It hurt Steve, the fact that Bucky truly regretted telling him. But seeing Bucky that uncomfortable that night on the roof — he wasn’t going to bring it up again, he didn’t want to make him go through that twice. Steve watched Bucky strike several dramatic poses in the mirror.

“So I don’t get any of it?” Steve whined jokingly. Bucky rolled his eyes and groaned, smiling in spite of his mock annoyance. As he slipped off the shirt, Steve tried not to stare. He had considered what he would do had he liked Bucky, how he would’ve reacted. And it seemed that his mind couldn’t drop that hypothetical situation. Steve reminded himself that he liked girls and looked back down before Bucky could notice.

“And what work did _you_ do to help me go through _my_ clothes?” He shifted his weight to one leg, crossing his arms and raising his eyebrows, waiting for a response. 

“Moral support?” Steve offered with a weak laugh. “C’mon, I’m your best friend, you’ve _gotta_ share.”

“I’ll run it by the board.” Bucky shrugged. “I’m ’fraid to say it’s outta my hands.” Steve rolled his eyes. He heard a knock at the door and hopped to his feet, happy to have an excuse to stretch. He left Bucky, who was in the middle of flexing wearing only a vest. Steve rolled his eyes, tossing a glance over his shoulder before he left. He wished he could redo that night. He wasn’t sure what he’d do differently, but it wouldn’t be the same. That’s for sure. He peered through the peephole and groaned. It was a salesman. Steve slowly lowered himself off of his toes and quietly crept away. He walked into Bucky’s room, his finger already held up to his lips, ready to tell him to be silent so the man didn’t come back later. He paused. The room was empty, the vest was discarded on the floor. When Steve listened, he heard a soft sobbing. He followed the noise, pushing open the door just the right amount so it wouldn’t creak. 

“Buck?” He poked his head into the bathroom, his eyes squeezed shut. “Are you in here?” He already knew the answer. The muffled crying was clear as day here, magnified by the tile walls and hardwood floors. He could hear that the crying was coming from the wall just beside the door, nowhere near the toilet or shower. He opened his eyes. Bucky was on the floor, wearing nothing but his pants. His head was in his hands, his hair held in fistfuls, his back was shaking, each new sob bringing a whole new shudder to wrack his body. Steve stepped over his splayed out legs and into the room, shutting the door behind himself. He sat on the floor, the coolness a welcome contrast to the stuffiness the sweater had brought. He put a hand on Bucky’s arm. Bucky only cried harder. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t, Steve.” Bucky raised his head. His eyes were bloodshot, bloody paint spilled into the ocean azure. Red and blue. In that moment, Steve wasn’t sure if a more heartbreaking color combination could exist. It didn’t look like freedom in that moment; it looked trapped and lost, pained. Bucky looked lost. “I told you— and I regret it a little. But I _can’t_ pretend I never told you. You don’t like me and I have to live with that but I can’t _pretend_ to like girls around you. I’ve done that for too long.” Steve nodded, listening. He wasn’t sure how to tell Bucky about the past few days, how many times he’d caught himself staring, wondering about that night. Wishing Bucky had told him sooner.

“You don’t have to pretend.” Steve crossed his legs and scooted himself closer to Bucky, having to sit between his legs in the cramped bathroom. He’d been subconsciously preparing for this conversation for nearly a week without realising, by replaying the events over and over again: the kiss, the conversation leading up to it, the small exchange after. He could finally say exactly what he wanted to. He started talking, growing more and more confident with each word that passed his lips. “I told you I don’t care and I mean that. You’re my best friend and you can’t exactly control this part of you, so why should that change anything?”

“No,” Bucky snapped, his voice loud. He lowered it, looking annoyed suddenly. With tears still streaming down his face and a quavering tone, he spoke. “I’ve seen you staring. You look at me and you think I don’t notice but I _do_. I see you watching me and wondering what to think. I know exactly what’s happening. You think I’m a monster. A disgusting monster. You think it’s wrong. Well Rogers, frankly, _fuck_ you. Fuck what you think. There’s nothing wrong with the way I am. I can’t change it and you’re being a shitty goddamn friend so _cut_ the bullshit and if you have an issue then tell me but stop it with this passive aggressive staring.” Steve blinked. Bucky glared at him. His lower lip was shaking, but Steve pretended not to notice. 

“I didn’t know you had noticed,” Steve whispered. Bucky scoffed, sank lower to the floor, and rolled his eyes, looking more annoyed than anything right now. “I’m sorr—”

“It was pretty blatant you absolute shit.” Bucky’s eyes were narrowed, the blue icy and cold, unforgiving. Steve wanted so badly to just talk, to explain himself. “Made me feel real fucking swell.”

“Look Bucky— I—”

“I put myself out there,” Bucky spoke over him, Steve glared in frustration. “And I can deal with you being into girls. That’s fine. But the _looks_? The goddamn looks, Jesus, they’re not even subtle. And from my best friend of all people? My mom asked if we were in a fight after you left last night. That’s how fucking obvious it is.” Steve sputtered out an apology.

“I’m— look, Buck, I don’t care— honestly I don’t, it’s just—”

“You’re not fooling me,” Bucky snapped. He sat up, his face having been only inches from Steve’s. He put his hand on the ground, making to get up, but Steve grabbed him and pulled him back down. “You care.” Bucky grumbled as he slumped backwards against the wall. Steve rolled his eyes, recalled all of the thoughts he’d had the past several days, and then— he didn’t think at all.

He pulled Bucky towards him, leaning in to have their lips meet halfway. Bucky sat, absolutely frozen, but quickly recovered. His hands slid up Steve’s waist, going to his back, pulling him closer. Steve moved his mouth in synchronisation with Bucky’s, each tilting their head to the side in a vain effort to grow closer. Steve could taste something metallic. His skin was burning wherever Bucky’s fingertips skimmed across his skin. He felt himself tense. He tossed his arms over his shoulders, glad they were sitting. Otherwise he’d be weak at his knees.

Bucky began drawing his legs in closer to himself, pulling Steve nearer to him with his heels in the process. Bucky’s hands were under the sweater now, sliding down his stomach. Steve contrasted his movements, letting his hands wander upwards, up to his chest which was hot to the touch. Bucky leaned closer, Steve mirroring his actions. The back of his head hit the wall, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care, not even a little. One hand lingered while the other slid up to Bucky’s collarbone, Steve could feel his quickening pulse, around his shoulder to the back of his neck. He felt the hairs, standing on end in their exhilaration. He moved his hand up the back of Bucky’s neck while Bucky had resigned to let his hands rest on Steve’s hips. Steve ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair, tousling it and pulling him closer, deepening the kiss further still. Steve wanted so badly to— he remembered the thin walls. The neighbors, the risk. He stopped, pulled away. Bucky strained to follow Steve for a moment, relenting and allowing them to part reluctantly. He looked at Steve, the corners of his mouth tugged upwards into a confused grin. 

“What was _that?_ ” Bucky asked, breathless in his delight. Steve wasn’t sure he’d ever seen such a genuine grin on any man on any date ever. Let alone on Bucky. “I thought—” he stopped, chuckling happily. “I thought you liked girls.” He tilted his head to the side, waiting for an answer.

“I’m not sure.” And it was the truth. “I’ve always like girls, Buck, and nothing can change that. But that kiss on the roof was like— I’m not sure how describe it. I don’t feel the same way with you I feel about girls, it’s different for sure— but _shit_ when you kissed me. I haven’t been able to get that night out of my head.” Steve smiled, allowing his hand untangle from Bucky’s now mess of hair and fall to his shoulder. He traced his fingertip along a series of freckles. “So I’m not sure what it is. But that night after you got me home I realised that the way I feel about you is the way I’ve felt about a lot of guys before. I just never considered— because I like girls, you know.”

“I don’t know how that even happens,” Bucky laughed, his head falling forwards and coming to rest on Steve’s chest. “ _Or_ what exactly that means. But I’m not complaining.” Steve laughed. Bucky continued, pulling his head away and looking Steve in the eye. “I have a deal.” He took one hand from Steve’s hip, the air feeling cold on his skin, and brought it up to touch his lip. It was carefully healing, or at least had been until just now. Bucky tapped it and blood came away, a tiny fingerprint of red, it began to trickle lightly down his face. “I won’t complain about you breaking my lip open and we get to kiss like that again.”

“Deal,” Steve said, leaning forwards so his whisper of a voice could be heard. Steve only been kissed once. And since it had been by Bucky, two kisses in one week wasn’t bad. At first, Steve tried to convince himself that it didn’t count, because it had been with a guy. But now, he was sure they counted twice as much. Because he finally realised that he loved Bucky back.


	12. APARTMENTS

“How’d you find us?” Steve tilted his head to the side in confusion, leaning lazily against the doorway. The hallway reeked of smoke, sweat, and disinfectant, all ingrained into the fibers of the carpet in the years it had been open. He took a glance up at the hallway light through slitted eyes, already much preferring the soft darkness of their hotel room. “And why so early?” He tried patting down his bed head, having not had a chance to make himself presentable between curing his boyfriend’s hangover and reassuring Bucky that he still loved him. It had been a busy morning.

“It’s nearly noon.” Peggy blinked, standing on her toes in an attempt to peer over his shoulder and through the tiny opening in the door, currently only held open with Steve’s foot. She lowered back down to her heels in resignation. “Were you doing something?” Bucky poked his head around the corner of the door, his face lighting up when he saw her.

“Peggy!” Bucky pushed the door open fully, leaning moodily against the other end of the doorway, mirroring Steve’s actions exaggeratedly. Steve suppressed a grin. The corners of Peggy’s mouth had quirked up into a smile. “It’s been— what, two days since you’ve seen me? And you’re already coming by to steal my heart? How _romantic_ ,” he swooned, clasping his hands together. He shot her a wink, blowing a kiss. Steve suddenly regretted the cupful of espresso he’d given Bucky. 

“We’re um,” Steve glanced down and realised he wasn’t wearing a top. He looked at Bucky who was wearing a loose shirt and boxers. He felt his face heat up slightly at the thought of someone walking down the hall and seeing him in this state. “We hadn’t gotten dressed yet— want to talk inside?” 

“That’s a good idea,” Peggy chuckled, straightening the stack of papers in her hands. Tabs stuck out at the top, her neat handwriting adorning the entire front page’s margins. Bucky pushed himself off the doorway excitedly.

“Welcome to our humble abode.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand towards the room, bowing deeply. “Refreshments are being served at the tap. We have lukewarm water and slightly—warmer—than—that water.”

“Oh,” she said with a small smile playing on her lips. “How swell of you. Only water?”

“Steve got me some strong as shit coffee but I think that’s a soulmates perk.” Bucky shrugged helplessly, smiling through every word of his sentence. He flicked on the bedroom light, stepping over the clothes strewn on the floor to pull open the blinds. Peggy regarded Steve with amusement.

“Do I get a _’dated for a week’_ perk?” she joked lightly. Steve coughed, feeling his face heat slightly. The room flooded with natural light and Steve shielded his eyes, wondering how he’d managed to sleep in this late. 

“Nope,” Bucky called from across the room, collapsing backwards onto the bed. “Only me.” He stretched out, pushing his hair from his eyes sleepily.

“Ah,” she sighed. “Oh well.” She walked in, fanning herself lightly with the stack of papers held between her manicured fingers. She eyed the room, her gaze flitting from the unmade bed to the articles of clothing, tossed over pieces of furniture. “Were you two busy?” 

“Busy sleeping off a hangover!” Bucky whooped, holding up a hand for a high five, letting it drop down with a slight grumble when no one came to his aid. 

“What makes you stop by?” Steve took Bucky’s sock, still soggy from the puddles he’d stumbled through the night before, from off a chair and sat, motioning for Peggy to take the other. She lowered herself into the seat. 

“Well I was assuming you’d start the search for a house right away,” she began, tapping the sleek finish on the wooden arm of the seat. “And I was hoping to find you before you continued.” 

“Oh?” Steve shifted the chair so he was facing her. He grabbed his shirt from the floor and began slipping it on. “Sorry for the mess by the way,” he added. “Crazy night.” He pulled the collar over his head, raising his hand to fix his hair before remembering that the cause was long lost.

“I can imagine,” she agreed, then paused. She stilled her tapping, almost looking nervous, her fingertips hovered above the arm’s surface. “I know we talked about the four of us maybe living together, to avoid suspicion.” Steve nodded, suddenly remembering the couple he’d seen torn from their homes for being discovered. “We found a place, it’s near where you were recruited, so near where you grew up, I assume?” Bucky yawned out an affirmative _’yes.’_ “Good,” Peggy continued with a warm smile. “Then you’ll be happy to hear that there’s an appointment tomorrow. To sign the papers and such.” Steve blinked, this was quick, not that he didn’t doubt for a moment that Peggy hadn’t pulled some strings to get this done so quickly.

“Where’re you and Angie staying?” Steve asked, looking down to straighten his shirt. He reached for his collared shirt, cursing himself for having left it to crumple on the top of the dresser night before. “We could go for a night out.” Bucky’s face lit up. “No drinking— I— God, Buck, you’re still a little hungover.”

“The best cure for a hangover is drinking again,” Bucky said in a singsong voice. Steve shook his head, not even sure where to begin with telling him how wrong he was.

“It’s quite a good technique for alcoholism,” Peggy teased. Steve snorted while Bucky grumbled. Her eyes travelled up and down the length of Steve’s ensemble with amusement. “I’ll let you two get some rest. We’ll pick you up at six.” 


	13. A FEAR TO FIGHT

“You pumped for tomorrow?” James had a mouthful of chips and, being incredibly stupid, didn’t let that stop himself from speaking. Steve reminded himself he couldn’t judge much. It’s not like they _weren’t_ currently spread out on their comforter, eating the greasiest possible food, all with reckless abandon atop their last clean set of bedsheets. “Or for later today,” he corrected. “But then again, tomorrow isn’t tomorrow until you wake up. Anyways, how’re you holding up?”

“I’m a little nervous,” said Steve with a shrug, taking the last chip from the plate and ducking as James made a playful swipe of protest. “Like what if he can’t fix it?” James reached forwards, holding Steve’s head between his hands and looking him in the eye quizzically, not unlike a doctor. 

“Are you sane? Is Steve there?” Steve snorted with laughter, leaning forwards and letting his head fall onto James’ chest, the moment feeling strangely familiar. Steve’s eyes found themselves trained on the elephant pattern of the sheets, James’ hands circled around to the underside of his chin. He lifted Steve’s head and looked him in the eye. His eyes were calming, reminding him of the glowing light at the heart of Iron Man’s chest. “Banner’s the smartest man either of us know. He’ll know what to do.” Steve kept his head close to James’ as he twisted around, leaning back onto his chest. James moved back so Steve’s head was in his lap. As he ran his fingers through Steve’s hair, James smiled down at him. Steve made a face, raising one eyebrow and poking his tongue out between his teeth. James mirrored it, twice as dramatic and three times as horrendous looking.

“I’m tired of those stupid headaches. And those _dreams_. They’re so realistic. I keep seeing Bucky and waking up thinking he’s real or something.” Steve shook his head, sighing. He wished his subconscious mind would come to terms once and for all with the fact that the past was in the past. He kept waking up disoriented too, forgetting where he was— when he was. He had nearly forgotten who James was once, all due to the fact that he’d gotten too wrapped up in what happened when he slept. “It’ll be a short car ride,” he reminded. “Only four hours. But I still need to sleep.” James nodded, his hair falling from behind his ear and cascading down. Steve reached and tucked it back, leaving his hand resting on his boyfriend’s head. “You sure you want to come?” Steve heard the concern laced in his tone as his words to come to a rest, hanging in the air.

“I’m coming,” James promised, a sense of finality in his tone. “Banner says it’s not good for me to not face my fears or whatever. I need to leave the house. Even if I don’t want to.”

“That’s what you said when you wanted to buy candy apples,” Steve muttered dryly. “You ended up calling a lady a spy for shooting you an odd glance.” 

“That was a month ago.” He brushed the statement off, smiling. “I’m a changed man now.” Steve huffed; that had been exactly what he had said before going to the candy apple store. “Besides,” James was picking stray pieces of melted cheese off the plate and eating them. “It was absolutely warranted. She gave us a mean look.” 

“You can’t call the police on everyone you disagree with,” Steve cried out, his argument holding no real protest. He honestly thought the entire thing had been hilarious.

“I didn’t call— I texted.” James huffed playfully, leaning down to plant a quick kiss on Steve’s cheek. “You forget I prefer not talking in public.”

“Fine,” Steve relented with an eyeroll, looking up at the ceiling light overhead that flickered and buzzed softly. “But you can’t just text the police whenever you disagree with someone.”

“Try and stop me.” James winked. Steve knew he was trying to distract from the issue at hand. It was something he was terrified of facing, even if he wouldn’t admit it outloud.

“You get anxious, and that’s okay. I just don’t want you to hurt yourself. Just don’t overstress tomorrow”

“Hurt?” James echoed the word, his face falling. Steve pushed himself up, grabbing the empty plate and walking back to the kitchen. He stopped at the counter, turned around to face James. 

“James?” He looked up, his reaction delayed, his eyes looking suddenly tired. “I think you’ll do great, and— who knows? Maybe they’ll ask you to join the Avengers again? You’ll get to help us kick ass.” Steve laughed, grabbing the plate and piling chips up onto the plate, grabbing shredded cheese from the fridge and piling it up in a heap. He popped open the microwave and set it to half a minute. He checked his phone to send Tony a text.

S: We’ll be there tomorrow. :) 

Almost immediately it pinged.

T: Mr. Stark says alright.

Steve frowned.

S: JARVIS— you can text now?

T: No Mr. Rogers, it’s Peter :) 

Steve laughed. He was a good kid. He slipped his phone in his pocket just as the microwave beeped. He grabbed the plate, the cheese steaming, and held it close. Steve smiled. it was so wonderfully warm. He made his way back to the bed and stopped, confused. James was facing the wall, exactly where Steve had left him, his eyes unblinking and hollow. His jaw was set and his hands were clenched into fists. Steve walked closer and sucked in a breath when he saw that there were two trails of tears streaking his face, meeting under his chin and dropping to the sheets. Steve put the plate on the bed’s corner and climbed atop the bed. He looked at James. 

“Hey— hey— it’s me, you okay?” James didn’t respond, didn’t even acknowledge him. He was frozen, absolutely unmoving, his eyes not seeming to even register Steve’s movement. They didn’t even follow his waving hand. Steve bent to lower his face to where James’ gaze had fallen, which was pretty low. “Barnes, you’ve gotta talk to me.” He didn’t respond. Steve tried to hug him, but to no avail. Steve stroked his arm. James’ face twitched, so Steve took that as a positive sign. He let his hand travel down to James’ wrist, grabbing it and holding it close. It didn’t wrap back around his. “Did I say something wrong? James?” 

Almost as if James had been dunked into a tank of freezing water, he gasped, his head shooting up. He looked around. His gaze settled on Steve and still didn’t register. He scrambled backwards, away from Steve’s outstretched hand.

“Nyet,” James whispered, looking terrified. Steve tried to hold him close, reaching forward only to be pushed away with a surprising amount of force square in the chest. Steve’s head hit the wall. “No!” James hollered, staring at the wall, crying harder now. He let out a sob, whispering under his breath. “Nyet, presti, rusty, no, no.” Steve tried to inch closer, slowly bringing himself to his boyfriend. James cried out again, trying weakly to push Steve away. When Steve didn’t give in, James grabbed him and— with another move of surprising force— tossed him off the bed. 

“James, I— I’m here for you, are you okay?” James still didn’t respond. He was muttering the word _’rusty’_ under his breath over and over again. No— not that. Something Russian. Steve fumbled for his phone, scrambling to his feet and dragging himself over to the hallway. He could hear the loud sobs, interrupted by strings of words he didn’t understand. He pulled up his phone, not having to sort through many contacts until he came to hers.

“Natasha?” He frowned as it continued to ring. He waited. It rang. One. Two. Three. He heard a scream from James. He couldn’t wait. Steve ended the call, pulling up a translation website. He listened to the pronunciation several times carefully, repeating it over and over. He walked back into the room. James was bent over, his arms wrapped around his midsection, looking as if he had been shot by a bullet. He didn’t respond when Steve sat, and hardly acknowledged Steve when he placed a hand on his back. He let out a stifled cry. Steve’s heart nearly broke. He opened his mouth and in, albeit very broken, Russian, said, _‘I love you.’_ James stopped, finally looking up. “ _I love you._ ” Steve repeated, the Russian words feeling foreign on his tongue in the very American pronunciation. James stared at him, seeming to see Steve for the first time, his face finally registering. He crumpled and let out a wail, grabbing Steve’s shirt. He held it in his hands as if it were a lifeline, as if Steve was a small spark of hope in a tundra of helplessness. Steve nearly toppled forwards with the weight James was putting on him, pulling him close and holding him to tight. 

“ _I love you_ ,” James choked out after a sob. It sounded much more authentically Russian when he said it. Steve laughed as he stroked James’ hair, tucking it behind his ears. He was shaking now, each breath making him shudder like a bag in the wind. He shook, looking so small and so frail. Steve wished he could help. 

“ _I love you_ ,” Steve repeated in Russian. “ _I love you. I love you. I love you._ ” James’ meltdown had been reduced to no more than a few shuddering breaths, shaking and feeble. He lifted his head, his eyes red, his face streaked in the trails the tears had taken, his nose red. In English, Steve spoke. “I love you.” Steve pulled James into a hug, a tight hug. He spoke again, in English this time. “They’re gone. Those people are gone from your life and they won’t hurt you anymore. Your life is yours.” James pulled Steve closer, Steve hugged him tight. “What happened?”

“I—” he choked, letting out a small sob. He pulled away from Steve and refused to meet his boyfriend’s eyes. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. Even if they’re bad.” His voice was small, as if he were ashamed. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt people. I don’t— I can’t be an Avenger.” Steve’s heart nearly stopped. He remembered all of the things James had been through, and wanted so badly to be able to make it all better.

“No, no, no,” Steve reassured, wiping the dampness from his red cheeks. “You don’t have to. They can’t make you. I’ll make sure of it.” He gave him a reassuring smile. James laughed, his voice wet when he spoke.

“By the way,” he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Your Russian is shit.” Steve broke out into a smile.

“Is not,” he laughed. James shook his head.

“No, it’s _absolutely_ terrible. You started whispering _’I’m stoned’_ halfway through. Your pronunciation is the worst.” Steve laughed along. He pulled James into a hug, letting his breath slow down, silently willing his counterpart to match. In and out. He listened to the cars driving by, few and far inbetween at this hour. It had to be at least two in the morning. The fan overhead spun slowly, doing its job lazily. It looked almost as tired as Steve felt. 

“C’mon,” Steve hummed. “Let’s get to bed.” He made to sit up, prepared to abandon the nachos, when James suddenly grabbed his arm.

“No,” he said, a desperation in his eyes. “I— can’t sleep right now, not with… that.” Steve nodded, understanding. “I’ll just go up to the roof,” James said, making to stand up. “I’ll let you sleep in peace.”

“Like hell you will,” Steve said irritably, pulling him back to the bed. “You’re not going on the roof.” He looked him in the eyes, his loose hair and slightly overgrown stubble adding to his disheveled look. “It’s cold tonight. Besides, you just had a bit of a meltdown. If you’re staying up then I’m staying up.” James smiled softly, almost looking hesitant in his happiness. Steve leaned forwards and kissed the tip of his nose, still red from crying. He sat back down on his heels.

“You… will?” Steve nodded with a sense of finality. James had come to trust Steve, to let his guard down around him. But there will still walls up, walls that Steve knew James wasn’t ready to let down. Steve knew he had to respect that.

“Absolutely.” Steve huffed as if it were a no brainer which it was, to him at least. Not so much to James. “You don’t need to isolate yourself.” He pushed strands from his face, tilting his head to the side in his pensive moment. “You’re not like unworthy of love or something because of your past.” James frowned, almost as if he didn’t quite believe this. He quickly wiped that expression from his face.

“You’re amazing,” he sighed, the upward tugging corners of his mouth not quite reaching his eyes. “I’ll make sure Banner fixes your head.” 


	14. DEFIANCE

The thought of the draft painfully fresh in his mind, Steve held Bucky close. He held him like he’d never see him again, because, hell— maybe he wouldn’t. Bucky had shown him the letter, a sorrow hidden behind the facade of pride that had been glinting in his eyes. Not that Steve had needed to be shown the order, the uniform had given it away. The back alley fight, usually a flurry of excitement and fists, had slowed down for Steve. He’d been unable to tear his eyes away from the uniform, from _Bucky’s_ uniform. Bucky, come to save Steve one last time before he was packaged up and shipped to a far off country to fight a fight that Steve was being kept from.

Steve didn’t want to think about that. Not tonight. Not anytime soon. He wanted to deny. Deny, deny, deny. He wanted to think about the fabric trapped between his hand and the cement below, the tiny pebbles that dug into his palm. He wanted to think about his hair falling and brushing against Bucky’s face as he leaned over him and kissed his nose, his temple, his cheek, his forehead. He wanted to think about them. The two of them. Enjoying their last night. He wanted to not think about what might change. What might never be because of that draft.

That stupid damned draft. Just an arms reach away— a single piece of paper, sealing his Bucky’s fate. Steve nearly reached out to lift the hat in hopes that it would sail away, that it would somehow make this any less true. He didn’t like it. He hated it. The sight of it left a bitter taste in his mouth. So he focused on Bucky— on his breathing. On their hearts pounding together. On their tangled hands. He pressed himself closer to the rooftop, closer to Bucky. He kissed him in a blatant act of defiance against the draft, breathing in deeply the smell of smoke and salt, the smell of home. He ignored the incessant fluttering of paper. Like a bird in a cage— trying to break free. Part of him hoping, in vain he knew, that if he kissed Bucky hard enough— for long enough, that this would all go away. If only for a moment. He should be going with him, going to keep him safe. But no. He was small, too small.

“Stevie,” Bucky said around Steve’s lips. Steve stopped, his breathing shaky, his hands unsteady. His forehead was close to Buck’s, their noses pressed together. “Look, I—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Steve said, his voice breaking. He could hear the paper, the whistling of the wind past his ears, the honking of the cars, all too loud, all drowning out his thoughts. “I hate that draft.” He cursed himself for the quaking tone that passed his lips, for the way his hand trembled against Bucky’s face. “We should be going together.”

“So much for not wanting to talk about it,” Bucky said with a scoff. “And no, you’d get yourself killed.”

“I’d only be going to keep your sorry ass alive,” Steve muttered, sitting up and crossing his arms tight across his chest, his hair fell just past his eyebrows now. He needed to have it cut, but his barber had been drafted two months ago. “You wouldn’t last a day without me.”

“And what about you?” Bucky asked with a flat laugh, shifting underneath Steve so he was sitting up, their faces were inches apart. Bucky’s lips quirked into a smile. “You’re not even the one who got drafted and you’re a mess.” Steve began to protest but Bucky grabbed his hands and held them for him to see. They were shaking as quickly as the frantic beating of a caged bird’s heart, trembling even in the sudden absence of wind. Bucky let go of his hand and held Steve’s face, using his thumb to wipe away blood where it had been split in a fight. He looked at Steve with soft eyes, a vulnerability playing on his features that he didn’t often show. Steve let out a breath.

“Just don’t get yourself killed.”

“And let you have all the fun back here without me? I wouldn’t dare.” Steve smiled into Bucky’s touch. He slowly leaned forward. Bucky kissed Steve and the sounds of the city melted away, like wax held up to fire— dripping and pooling at their feet into an indistinguishable mix of colors and sounds and feelings. All of the smells of their surroundings were stripped until it was just them. The entire world was theirs and theirs alone. Steve’s hands were growing steadier with each breath and his fingers snaked around Bucky’s waist. He pressed his hand against the small his back, his skin hot— even through the shirts fabric. He pulled him close. He could feel his heart. Steve sank into Bucky’s touch in all of its sureness as he tilted his head to allow the two to grow closer still. The smell of smoke clung to his skin. The discarded cigarette was scattered beneath them. Their breaths were shared. Their wandering hands were slow, as if neither of them wanted to risk rushing the moment, risk forgetting. Then he heard the shatter. 

Steve’s eyes shot open. He planted a hand firmly into the center of Bucky’s chest and pushed, hard. Bucky fell back, his head hitting against the cement of the rooftop with a soft thud. His hand snapped up to rub his head, glaring at Steve. Steve’s eyes were wide and fixed on the man. Bucky twisted underneath Steve and his face, flushed only moments ago, paled to ice. Bucky pushed Steve and scrambled to his feet. His feet scraped fruitlessly in his haste as he struggled to gain his footing. He grabbed his new uniform jacket, shoved the carton of cigarettes into the pocket, folded the draft with unsteady hands. He fixed his hat onto his head again, tugging it low to hide his features. Steve was frozen, too scared to move. Bucky was shaking. 

“Boys.”

Bucky flinched. Steve jumped, scrambling to his feet. Their hearts were pounding. The man’s voice was loud. He spoke from his chest and it left his mouth booming, much too loud for someone so wizened. Steve was standing beside Bucky now. Both were ducking their heads and casting their eyes to their mud caked shoes. Daring glances up at the man in his silence was a risky game. They were being scolded. Up here on this rooftop, old enough to drink, old enough to vote, old enough to fight. The both of them waited to be reprimanded like little school children. But were met with a painful silence. Silence. It was more terrifying than yelling. Steve was playing with his hands now, his breathing growing raspy all over again, he tried to calm himself down. The man wasn’t speaking— why wasn’t he speaking? Speak dammit. Speak.

“I have a son.”

Bucky’s shoulders were squared. His eyes were squeezed shut. He was whispering numbers under his breath. Counting. Steve wondered what to. A more realistic part of him wondered how high he’d get before the police would be called. What number would he be at by the time they’d have been tossed into cells? The wind picked up, the door slammed against its frame loudly. Steve let out a whimper. He stole another look. The old man was staring at the sky, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, his thinning white brows tugged low over his eyes.

“He’s like you two.”

Steve wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bucky’s hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Tiny dots of red appeared on his palms, and Steve realized he was drawing blood. Steve wanted to reach out and grab Bucky’s hand, to comfort him. He couldn’t do that. He shifted slightly away from Bucky, as if standing an inch further apart would make what they had just been caught doing any less real. The man let out a wheeze of a cough. He brought a mottled hand up to his mouth and leaned on the doorway, as if standing on his own was too much effort in itself. 

“He— uh. He told me. What I said cost me a son.”

Bucky’s stream of conscience faltered, and he quickly tried to pick it back up. Under his breath, words and numbers whisked away by the wind. Steve was blinking. He heard a boat’s horn in the distance. He wished to be at the docks.

“I’ve had to think about what I’ve done for twenty… twenty-seven years. I—” the man’s breath hitched. He cleared his throat slowly. “I’ve changed boy. Is what I’m trying to say. And I’m sorry.” Steve was looking up now, surveying the man. His eyes, starting to glaze with age, held a brokenness. “I’m sorry for what I said. And w— we— we miss you.” The man’s eyes fell onto Steve, and then refocused. “Boys, I’m not the man I once was.” Steve’s heart was racing. The silences were unbearable. “I’ve changed. And it took me seventy years to do so.” Steve wanted to spill out an apology even though his face was still heated. “I know more about life now.” Each pause felt like a year and Steve wanted to holler at him to hurry up. His speeding heart felt like it was going to leap from his chest. “What I’m trying to say is, I won’t tell the police.” 

“Really?” Steve let out a loud sigh of relief before he could stop himself. He immediately took a step back and cast his gaze to his feet. He shouldn’t have interrupted. Bucky’s whispering had stopped but he still hadn’t looked up. 

“Yes,” the man said with a soft laugh, his age was catching up with his voice, it was slow now, raspy. His posture was beginning to relax “And I— I need to tell you two boys something.” Both of them were regarding the man now, Bucky’s face cautious. “I’ve been trying to do better. Since my, uh, son passed. Make a difference and whatnot.” His tone was guarded, revealing none of what he was about to say. He let out a breath and licked his lips nervously, his hand raised up to rub the back of his neck. “I could get into trouble for this but it’s— I’d deal with that if it ever came to it. I house two other couples like you two young kids. It was three, but—” the main trailed off. He looked away. “If you ever need an apartment, you won’t need to hide here. At least— not fully.” Steve looked up at Bucky in disbelief. He was grinning, his usual confidence seeping into his features. His shoulders set back and his chin tilted upwards, he resumed his normal outward appearance. 

“Thanks,” he said lightly, as if the man had just aided him in picking up a dropped pencil instead of helped them avoid guaranteed jail time. Steve thought back to the photobooth strip and the couple. The smiling and happy couple, unbridled joy captured on a piece of film. Their stolen kisses and loving gazes— whisked from a windowsill into the city streets below. Their love met with disapproval. He remembered the article done on it, he remembered the people’s reactions, he remembered the building it had come from. Steve wondered how afraid the other two couples had been when that had happened. Afraid of being found out. Steve was going to turn to Bucky then, shoot him a look that said _‘it’s too risky’_ but Bucky was already closing the distance and outstretching a hand to shake. “We might just take you up on that offer. After the war of course.” The man nodded knowingly, looking at Bucky’s uniform proudly.

“You’re doing your country a service.” Bucky clicked his heels together loudly and saluted, laughing. He wore a facade of ease, one that Steve could see right through after so many years of friendship. The man looked at them, his eyes crinkling at the sides. “I’d suppose it’s been you two who’ve left all those beer bottles up on the rooftop, eh?” Steve’s face flooded with heat. He glanced downwards, ready all over again for a scolding. Bucky took off his cap and ran his hands through his hair with a small chuckle, the one he used in school whenever he had been trying to charm his way out of punishment. 

“We’ll be sure to pick those up mister.” The man waved a slow goodbye, saying he’d come back up in a few minutes with a broom to sweep up the shattered glass. He left them at the rooftop. “Holy fucking _moly_ ,” Bucky whispered. Steve laughed. Bucky tossed his hands up in the air, leaning back and laughing up at the clouds. “We really hit our strike of luck, didn’t we? Gee, Rogers. That could’ve been _bad_.” Steve was smiling up at Bucky. He was laughing along, tension slipped from his shoulders The two were filled with restless energy, finally able to let it out. They were pacing, jumping, dancing. Their feet hardly stayed on the floor for more than a few moments at a time. Steve skipped to Bucky and grabbed his shirt collar in two fistfuls, tugging him down and kissing him on the cheek. He was smiling, and Bucky was laughing. He grabbed Steve’s shoulders and kissed him back as he laughed into Steve’s cheek. Steve leaned into him.

“I love you Buck.”

“Me too, Rogers.” Bucky grinned dopily. “What d’you think about the offer? After I get back?”

“ _We_ get back.” Steve corrected with a laugh. “I’m gonna find a way to get over there. And I think we should definitely consider it.”

“Like hell you are,” Bucky said, still smiling. He straightened his jacket. “Someone’s gotta get into trouble standing up to all those punks back here. Keep Brooklyn in check.” Steve’s heart skipped a beat. Bucky was perfect. Steve turned around, busying himself. He put a tiny collection of scattered belongings into the tackle box.

“Let’s get this off the man’s roof.” Steve tucked a handful of photos of the two of them into the back, tossed some bandages over it. He found a keychain Bucky had stolen from a store for him, a four leaf clover in amber. He tucked that into the pile of gauzes, along with some notes they had written each other over the past few years— not much different from the ones they had always passed in class, just with hearts now. Steve clicked it shut and grabbed the handle. It groaned in protest after all of the years of idleness. Steve stood up, dusted himself off and looked Bucky up and down. “Didn’t you say you’d lined up a few dates for us?”

“Yeah,” Bucky scoffed. “At that Stark thing. Gotta keep the old man happy and off my back.” Steve nodded, he knew what he meant. Keeping up appearances. Bucky fished into his pockets and pulled out a cigarette, offering a second to Steve. Steve reached, holding the pink end between his slender fingers to tug it free from the carton. He lit it, taking a long drag, trying to relax. He could see the draft poking out through Bucky’s pockets when he opened his jacket to put the smokes away. Steve let the wisps of white seep through the crack of his lips, trying to clear his mind. But he kept thinking about the piece of paper. He held it in a bitter regard. He wanted to be with Bucky, he would find a way. He didn’t want his Bucky going to war. Going without him. Going to die.


	15. UPHELD PROMISES

“Steve?” Bucky called. Steve walked to the doorway, buttoning up his shirt before raising his gaze. Bucky was at the counter, leaning close to the mirror to shave off his newly formed stubble. He saw Steve in the mirror’s reflection and visibly livened, his beaming smile just barely discernible through the thick haze hanging in the air. He set the shaving—cream laden rasor on the counter as he spun on the balls of his feet to face Steve. His damp hair was plastered to his temples and eyebrows, water dripped down from his strands to his cheeks and nose, trailing downwards and gathering droplets from his drying face. “Exactly the punk I was looking for.” 

“Really?” Steve feigned shock as he leaned against the doorway, trying to supress the smile fluttering onto his face. “You were looking for _me?_ Gee, I’d never have known.” Bucky rolled his eyes, sauntering across the small stretch of tile floor towards Steve, so close that Steve could make out the droplets of mist on his eyelashes. “It’s not like you called _my_ name or anything…” Steve trailed off, smiling smugly. Bucky’s blue eyes sparkled with a sizzling electricity. 

“Can it, Rogers,” he laughed good naturedly. “I was thinkin’ we maybe go to the rooftop tonight? It’s so quiet up there.” He shot Steve a wink. Steve’s mouth quirked into a suppressed smile.

“Could you be any _less_ subtle? Our teenage makeout spot?” Steve laughed. He remembered the old tackle box. They’d locked it shut with three different chains and about seven padlocks, along with a dozen or so notes telling Buck’s parents to _not_ open it. They were nosy little shits. After they’d taken it off the roof, they’d tucked it away to the farthest corner of Bucky’s closet and tossed boxes and clothes over it. All there was left to do was pray for the best. They hadn’t received a formal letter in the mail yet about the Barnes family disowning their eldest child yet, so Steve supposed their precautions had been successful thus far. He thought back to the man. “Buck?”

“Hm?” Bucky had turned back to the counter, he was shaving his face again. He tapped the razor on the sink’s edge, the shaving cream fell off into a small pile. He raised the razor up again, tilting his head carefully as he began to work on his neck.

“Let’s see if Peggy and Angie want to maybe move into that building. The one with the guy from right before you left.” Bucky shrugged and nodded.

“I’m up for that. How many other couples did he mention living there? Four?”

“Two,” Steve corrected. “That was five years ago though, and at the start of the war.” Bucky nodded. “For all we know he could be gone.” Bucky nodded.

“Worth a shot. We’ll stop by.”

After a short car ride and several near futile attempts at convincing, Peggy decided that the risk may be worth the payoff. _Someone would know,_ she’d say, nervously wringing her hands. _That’s the point,_ Steve had responded, _he’d help us._ She’d relented, hesitant but he could see a spark of adventure in her eyes. She’d demanded that the car pull over, it screeched, its engine sputtering. Steve and Bucky got out, helping their friends follow in suit. They walked down the dusty and sunny alley towards the glass door, in they went. Steve had never seen it from the inside, the ceiling sagged, was held up by a deeply stained set of rafters that gave it a cottage-y feel. Plants hung from the ceiling, their leaves trickling downwards and brushing their heads as they walked past, making their way towards the desk.

The boy at the counter held himself with an overshot vitality, an eccentricness that was surely the reason for the black eye he had poorly covered with foundation. Steve knew all too well that Brooklyn kids weren’t all too forgiving of differences, and this boy didn’t seem to fall short in that department. His hair was a lively red, loose curls that fell just past his temple, untamed and unabashed. He wore an oddly patterned and oversized shirt with vivid designs, ones that caught Steve’s eye. He stood out in the otherwise dull building. 

“Hello fellas,” he said brightly, his voice carrying a melodic lilt. He had glanced up from whatever contraption he was holding in his hand and put it down, propping his elbows up on the counter. “What can I be helping you with today?” Steve had once been taken with the Barnes family to see a play, he’d laughed at the actors’ exaggerated gestures and overdone wardrobes, thinking that no real person would speak so much with their hands or bob their head that way with every word— that no person would wear colors that bright and contrasting. But this boy did just that.

“Hi,” Steve said, he tried not to stare at the oddball of a child. “I’m Steve and I’m—”

“I’m Thomas Cullen.” The boy, Thomas, had reached out a hand for Steve to shake. “It’s nice to be meeting you.” Steve smiled, and took the small hand, feeling himself relax. On the stage it was deliberate, the sweeping gestures and showy expressions. On this kid it looked almost natural. Thomas had plucked a pen from a repurposed soup can at the edge of the desk, and he held it up to the light streaming in through the windows, squinting and making a face. Nodding with a look of resolve, he uncapped it. He pushed aside what he had been looking at before Steve could see now that it was a camera and opened a large book. Several columns of scribbled handwriting adorned the page. Thomas rest the pen at the bottom of the page at the next blank line and looked up. “Now, what might be your full name, a room for the three of you? How many nights?” 

“Oh—” Steve laughed and shook his head. “No, we’re here to see someone. The landlord?” Steve finished his sentence with a slight hopefulness to his tone, praying that the man might still be here. The look of recognition that flashed across the boy’s eyes was promising. 

“Ah, that would be my uncle.” Thomas beamed, nodding. He set the pen down, where it rolled off the desk’s slight incline and clattered on the hardwood floor below. Thomas ignored it, as he had put his hands on the wooden surface and was leaning forwards to peer around the group, eyeing a clock on the wall opposite of the desk. He fell back, dusted off his hands with a few loud claps, and pushed up his sleeves to his elbows, revealing his bruised hands and arms. “He’s out right now, getting groceries for the week. He should be coming back in the next ten minutes or so. The market isn’t far.” Steve nodded, knowing that. It was just a few storefronts down the way, the one that he and his mom used to buy from. Bucky was there now— getting beer.

“Thanks,” Steve smiled. 

“How would it be that you know Uncle Sean? You walked in and I thought that you were lookin’ a little familiar.” Thomas had raised his eyebrows curiously and had crossed his arms across his chest. He was leaning backwards now, his head resting against the wall. He let the question hang in the air for a moment, filling the silence with a hummed tune that Steve’s neighbors had used to sing. “I was trying to piece it together, _‘where was I knowing Steve from?’_ and you’re just a friend of Uncle Sean!” Thomas was back to smiling, his melodic voice rising and falling. His words seeming to rest just at the tip of his tongue. “When did we meet?”

“Well I have met Sean, but I don’t think _we’ve_ ever actually met,” Steve said, _‘I would’ve remembered.’_ Thomas’ brow furrowed at this and he pressed his lips together. He kept glancing at Steve’s face. “But I was wondering if we could wait up at the roof? My friends here and I need to talk and the roads are crowded today.” Thomas glanced out, where people were still rejoicing over the end of the war. Rightfully so. But a conversation like the one they needed to have was best hosted in private. 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to be letting you lot up there,” Thomas said with a frown. He was still looking at Steve, not sounding entirely focused. “See— I trust that you do know Sean, but I can’t be letting strangers up there.” Steve nodded as he glanced at the chairs lined beside the wall. Angie was already sitting in one, quietly talking with Peggy. The two looked up at Steve, and Angie smiled. “Wait!” Thomas cried. “I know! Where I’ve been seeing you!” Steve frowned.

“Do you?”

“You’re Captain America!” Thomas’ hands flew up in the air. Steve felt his face heat up. Thomas was flipping through the newspaper now. He held up a page beside Steve, pointing excitedly to the picture printed. It was about the soldiers, their sacrifices and their hardships. The article was titled A TRIBUTE TO THEIR BRAVERY, and Steve wasn’t sure why his photo was the only one used. He had hardly been a deciding factor in the outcome of the war; the most exciting thing he’d done was crash a ship into the ocean. Thomas was pointing to it though, a grin spread across his fair skinned face. “No one at school will ever be believing me!” Thomas dropped the newspaper. It fluttered to the floor, the separate pages gliding to different areas of the room before coming to rest. “Can I take your photo?” 

“I—” Steve shot a look at Peggy, who was laughing. Angie looked smug. Steve shot them a halfhearted glare. “Uh.” He turned back to face Thomas. He shrugged. “Sure.”

“Thanks a million!” Thomas grabbed his camera and stared at the dials, all with numbers and letters and symbols that held no meaning to Steve. He couldn’t have operated one of those if his life depended on it. Thomas, however, seemed absolutely at home with the odd object, the same way he seemed at ease with his odd way of speaking and moving. Steve didn’t voice his observation. Thomas held it up to his eye, bending slightly as if lessening his height would change the quality of the photo. Steve smiled slightly. He had always been unsure of how to act around cameras. A bright flash filled the room before it quickly faded. “I’ll be letting you lot up to the roof.” Thomas nodded excitedly. “Tell Uncle Sean to meet you.” 

“Looks like being famous has its perks,” Peggy laughed, suddenly beside Steve. Steve jumped and glowered at her. 

“I’m not famous,” he grumbled. “I just wanted to help my country like everyone else.” 


	16. SLEEP TALKS

Steve woke up to a room with blinds tugged shut, the dusty rays of light that shone through the gaps only illuminated the dust in the air. He stiffened, confusion flooding his mind. He nearly called out for Bucky but stopped himself. He blinked a few times, realising that he had fallen asleep on their loveseat. His wrist pressed to his face, stuck when he tried to pull it. He looked at his charcoal-covered hands. The black dust covering his fingertips caught the light and glimmered. He couldn’t quite remember the entire night at first, but it quickly came rushing back. He had made coffee, several mugs’ worth, had downed them all without considering the fact that his useless boyfriend would absolutely fall asleep with his head in his lap by the end of the hour. For a torture hardened assassin, he was a huge teddy bear. Steve had been stroking his sleeping boyfriend’s hair, too awake to sleep after the buckets of caffeine; he’d spent the night drawing. He was awake now, the space between his legs where James had fallen asleep was now empty. 

“What time is it?” Steve asked through his yawn, stretching the stiffness from his muscles softly. He didn’t hear a response right away. He sat up, feeling a jacket that had been tossed over him fall to his waist. He looked at it, recognizing it as the one James had been wearing before. His sketchbook was shut and on the table, Steve couldn’t remember putting it there. Beside the table, the digital clock displayed the time in red, it was just a few minutes shy of 11:00. They’d need to leave by noon to get there in time for the dinner that had been planned to celebrate their visit. “James?” He pulled the jacket off of himself, leaving it in a pile on the cushion of the couch. He walked softly, straining to hear anything. A hum to a tune, with a name long forgotten, wafted through the air to Steve. He let out a small breath, glad to know that James hadn’t returned to his old habit of disappearing after a meltdown. Underfoot, a floorboard creaked softly, the humming tapered off. 

“Steve?” The voice came from the linen closet, sounding callous. His throat suddenly dry, his response came out as a hoarse croak.

“Heya.” He pushing the door open, unable to ignore the growing sense of unease in his stomach. James was looking into an old box given to them by SHIELD, full of childhood photos they’d salvaged, the corners and creases worn to dust. Each showing signs of being deeply loved from nights of being poured over, Steve animatedly retelling the stories of their past— James listening with a loving grin plastered onto his face, looking at Steve more than the moments he was describing. “I’m glad you got a night’s rest before the trip.” 

“Did you have any interesting dreams?” James asked, sounding guarded. He shut the box, the top clicked into place loudly. Steve frowned to remember, but couldn’t seem to grasp a thought for more than several seconds, each trail of a memory wisping away just before it could form. James was watching Steve now, waiting for a response, his face refusing to betray any of the deeper meanings so clearly intertwined in the sentence. Steve opened his mouth for a moment, with the intent to inquire— his voice failed him. He shrugged helplessly, shaking his head.

“Nothing that I can remember.” James’ gaze hardened but he didn’t say anything. He turned so his back was to Steve and stood on his toes to put the box back up on the top shelf, up where Steve kept his other mementos from his life during the war and from before the serum. An old uniform, a carton of _Marlboro_ cigarettes, a medal. “Is it important?” He frowned, knowing James to act a little differently after breakdowns but unsure if this could be contributed to that. James after a breakdown was jumpy: checking nearly every corner for bugs, securing and resecuring the doors and exits, refusing to eat any food in fear of poison. He seemed so adrift right now. The silence was icy, and Steve nearly shuddered. 

“No,” James said after a pause. His gaze flitted downwards to his wrist, then back up to Steve. His eyes looked tired. “We should get going.” 

“We have time,” Steve promised falteringly, hoping that he might be able to coax the reason for the bad mood out of James. “Are you okay?” 

“Yes.” He walked past Steve, silently walking down the hall back to the kitchen. Steve followed him with his eyes, unable to force the words out of his mouth, unable to call out. He slumped against the wall, biting his lip. He pushed himself from the doorway, following his boyfriend, feeling hopelessly lost. He entered the room to see James putting two already packed bags at the door. He didn’t acknowledge Steve when he spoke. “I told the driver to come sooner. It’ll be here in seventeen minutes now. You might want to wash up.” He shot a look at Steve but his eyes didn’t linger. He squatted down, perching on his heels as he busied himself opened various pockets off the luggage.

Steve grabbed his sketchbook from the bedside table and turned to the kitchen. He tossed the bound sketchbook to the counter, where it slid and hit a corner. Steve peered at a tiny mirror they had on the window sill. He looked at the charcoal smeared onto his face, leaving dark streaks on his contrastingly pale complexioned face. He grabbed a towel from the counter and wet it under the faucet, it growing heavy in his hand. He wiped at the tip and bridge of his nose, dabbed softly at his jawline, and then at the cheek opposite. His grip around the towel tightened and water oozed from between his fingers, riding down his forearm and dampening his shirt, dripping onto the counter with heavy and trickling drops. He turned off the faucet, listening, a voice drifted to him from behind, calling his name.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?” He turned around, making to exit the kitchen. He froze. He was in the hotel room with Bucky. His boyfriend was inches from his face. “Buck.” The word left his breathless lips. “You scared me.” He smiled softly, taking a step forwards, bringing his hand up to grab his face, feeling a sense of comfort when his boyfriend leaned into the touch, his stubble rough and tickling against Steve’s palm. He smiled up at Steve, his eyes a calm summer sky. Steve felt his unease dissipate, unsure of why it had been there in the first place. It was on the tip of his tongue. In the back of his mind now. He pushed it aside.

“Have you got your stuff?” Bucky asked, grinning, a cigarette hanging loosely from the lips of his slack smile; he had tossed his arms over Steve’s shoulders and was now looking Steve up and down. “The gals are bringing over a truck.” Steve’s eyes fell on the luggage he’d spent the night packing. Open on the bed was his sketchbook. Bucky rolled backwards on his heels to swing aside, following Steve’s gaze lazily with his own. His smile turned sparklingly mischievous. He untangled himself from Steve, falling back onto the comforter, just beside the luggage. He twisted to look at the pad of paper. “I wasn’t sure how to pack this.” 

“You just close it,” Steve laughed. “I’m sure you don’t need an in depth explanation.” 

“Hm,” Bucky hummed. “But what _does_ need an explanation is this.” He nodded to the page below. Steve leaned onto Bucky’s shoulder, peering over it and at the page below. The drawing was one Steve had drawn the night before. With sweeping strokes he’d drawn Bucky, his Bucky. Sleeping shirtless, tangled in the blankets; Bucky in his uniform, smiling; Bucky wearing a nearly unbuttoned shirt as he leaned against a wall and used his hand to dangle his cigarette out before himself.

“It’s you,” Steve sighed. “Don’t get a big head about it but I actually _do_ love you.”

“Goddamn right you do,” Bucky nodded triumphantly. “But I meant this.” He motioned to the others, Steve had hardly noticed them. Bucky with longer hair, with a metal arm. The name came to his mind— James. A man who looked like Bucky but wasn’t, who tied his hair up and had a tired look plaguing his features; James petting a three-legged alley cat; grinning up from a bowl of food. Steve shook his head. His gaze fell to his hand. It suddenly felt wet. He blinked. He was holding a towel, seeping wet. He shook his head. It was gone, his hands empty and his palm dry. He looked back at the drawings, focusing on the strokes of charcoal, pushing aside the sudden flush of unease that had tinged his mind.

“What about it?” Steve was frowning at more than just the drawings. His voice left his mouth sounding foreign, distant. “It had just been a dream.” Bucky was responding, a smile on his lips, but Steve couldn’t hear a single word. His hand felt damp again. He pressed his fingers into his empty palms, balling them into fists, feeling his nails digging into his skin as his headache returned with shocking force. He opened his eyes and yelped, unclenching his hands. A rag was in his hands now, weeping with water onto a hardwood floor underfoot. He stumbled backwards, wondering where Bucky was— where _he_ was. “Bucky?” His voice was loud in the room— a kitchen.

He put the towel onto the counter, wiping his hands on his shirt. Just beside where the water was pooling on the hardtop was his notebook, achingly familiar in this odd place. He grabbed it and opened it. He flipped through pages, saw pictures of Bucky along with— James. Steve gasped, dropping the book as the comfort of his home hit him with a firm suddenness. James, James his boyfriend, his best friend. He let out a shaking breath, almost as if recovering from being punched in the ribs. He looked down at his hands, both with crescent depressions where he had been firmly pressing his nails moments ago, red indentations slowly easing. Steve left the kitchen, sketchbook clutched tightly in his hand, ready to rid himself of these damned dreams. Ready to accept that Bucky was dead. He saw James frozen, as if someone had pressed a pause button while he had been rummaging through his bag. He held a toothbrush in one hand, and his eyes were red. “Bu—” he caught himself from saying the name so familiar on his tongue after so many imagined days in the past. “James? Baby, you okay?” Steve began to walk over but James stiffened. 

“We should go.” He stood up, refusing to look at Steve. His face was hard, guarded. James let out a breath. In an instant, the turmoil that had previously been so painfully clear etched into his features was gone, replaced by a stony indifference. 


	17. ARGUMENTS AND ANSWERS

Steve stood, luggage in hand. Shadows flashed over the two, plunging the pair in and out of utter darkness as they went up the back elevator. James had hardly said a word on the drive over, not that _that_ was out of the ordinary. He had really only been able to open up around a few people— and not many, aside from the avengers, had even seen him smile. But this silence was different. It was cold and directed towards Steve, who only wanted to know what he had done wrong. There were no glances to ensure comfort of the other, no small brushes of hands that could be mistaken for anything more than a slip, no small quirks of the corners of the mouth. Nothing to betray his personality beneath the surface. James was stony faced.

Steve crossed his arms tight across his chest, dropping the luggage. It landed with a thump. He tapped his arm, energy making him buzz. The windows plunged them into darkness. He looked at the buttons, glowing, and eyed the emergency stop. Bathed in light, the buildings grew smaller still. He tapped his foot, pushing air out through his pressed thin lips. James had noticed the difference in Steve’s demeanor, in his breathing, his movements. He shot him a subtle sidelong glance, his face refusing to lend itself to emotion. Steve was reminded of back when he had first seen him, back when he had still been under Hydra’s control. Steve tapped his foot feverishly. His hand shot out and pressed the stop button, knowing that they would have ten or so minutes before their absence would be noticed. The Stark Tower was efficient like that.

“Okay,” Steve said, whirling on the balls of his feet to face James, grabbing the railing to maintain balance as the elevator shook and sputtered to a stop. “What the hell is your deal.” James didn’t acknowledge Steve with any flash of recognition His eyes were cool and his gaze unwavering. He slowly turned to face Steve, his long tangled hair falling to cover parts of his face. His eyes narrowed, and he shifted his weight to one leg, tossed his hands in the air and huffed.

“It’s nothing.” He was looking at Steve now, his mask of serenity dissolving before Steve’s eyes. Steve could see hurt and distrust, feelings that there hadn’t even been a trace of the night before. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“No,” Steve snapped. “There _is_ something wrong, and you’re not telling me. What did I do? I know you’re upset.” Steve took a step closer and grabbed James’ arm, cool to the touch beneath his palm. “You need to talk to me babe, I’m—”

“Don’t,” James growled, “Don’t say that you’re here for me.” Steve felt the phrase die on his lips. He snapped his mouth shut. James pulled his arm from Steve’s grasp, squaring his shoulders. “Don’t say you’re here for me when you’re there with him. _Every_ morning you wake up acting like you don’t know who I am. You’re there—” He pointed to Steve’s head. “—with him. Always with Bucky.” Steve’s posture slipped, he took a step away, unsure of how to respond.

“I—” 

“No!” James was crossing his arms tightly now, glaring. “You still love him.” Steve sputtered, feeling hopeless. “I heard you last night. I heard you talking in your sleep.”

“It’s all in my head,” Steve protested weakly, unsure if it was really true. It always felt so real— but so did this. He wasn’t sure what to believe. When had the reality of his past ended? With the plane? When had these two lives had diverged? He wasn’t sure which story was right. “I love you, James.”

“You call me Bucky,” James said, his eyes pooling with tears. “When you’re half asleep you talk to him, you talk to me like I’m _him_ , I hear it.” James was running his hands through his hair over and over again now, tugging out the knots that formed in his frantic and jerky movements. “You want me to be him. You don’t love me. You’re not over the fact that your best friend died.” James’ hands shot out and he pressed off the emergency stop. The elevator shuddered, and Steve stumbled. It was moving back upwards, the numbers above the door counting up. He eyed the emergency button, glowing red like an angry and impatient eye. Steve made to press it, intending on finishing this conversation but James swatted his hand away, shooting him a glare. The elevator dinged. The doors began to open. “You only love me because I used to be him.” James strode out briskly, leaving Steve in the elevator. 

“Barnes!” A booming voice, deep and warm, hit Steve’s ears. Thor must be stopping by. Steve stooped down to grab the luggage, which he placed it just outside the elevator door. He peered around the corner to see the room that the Avengers had collectively claimed as their own. Much to Tony’s dismay, who had spent near a fortune money on a floor just for the group. But no— the entire team had taken to Stark’s personal floor. He’d given up long ago, allowing them full access to arguably the best story in the entire building. With a grand piano overlooking the city, floor to ceiling windows, and a nearly infinite stock of food in the fridge, it was easy to see why this one had been deemed the best. James had plopped himself onto the couch alongside Thor, with his legs crossed and hands in his lap. He listened to Thor, who was telling a story, and didn’t look up when Steve walked in. 

“Thor,” Steve nodded with a warm smile. Thor glanced over, grinning broadly. He lifted up a glass of indigo bubbling liquid in greeting. He didn’t falter in his speaking, continuing to recount the tale of a recent battle he and Loki had had recently. It involved a man on fire from what Steve could make out, although he supposed context would’ve helped. James was nodding, already deeply immersed. Thor had one foot tucked under himself and the other stretched out across the couch cushions. His jacket’s sleeves were pushed up to his forearms, revealing muscles nearly twice the size of Steve’s. They somehow making him feel small all over again. Thor was talking animatedly, his hands waving around, the drink sloshing in its cup. Banner poked his head through a doorway and lit up. 

“Steve!” Steve broke out into a smile.

“Banner!” He made his way over and pulled the scrawny man into a hug. He pulled away and held him at an arm’s length, taking in his disheveled look in amusement. His graying brown hair was ruffled and unkept, and the shirt he was wearing hung loosely on his frame. He was stifling a yawn. “You look tired,” Steve commented.

“There was an outbreak in Odisha and they needed me, just got back yesterday.” Banner shrugged. “Time differences aren’t as easy to deal with when you’re old.” He laughed lightly, his eyes flicking towards Thor before settling back on Steve.

“You’re a good man, Banner.” Steve nodded, shooting Banner a warm smile. He nodded to Thor, laughing. “So, I noticed Son-of-Odin over there has a haircut, when did that happen? I could’ve sworn it was a solid foot longer last time I saw him.” Banner followed Steve’s gaze. Thor was running his hands through his hair, short and cut unevenly. Steve couldn’t help but imagine that Thor had attempted to cut it himself and failed miserably, it wasn’t too far outside the realm of possibility, knowing how accident prone he tended to be. A ten thousand year old toddler.

“Bruce,” Banner corrected, “call me Bruce.” He looked over to Thor with a fond look in his gray eyes. “He— uh, got himself into some trouble.” Thor had somehow heard Banner— Bruce’s voice underneath his booming speech about a ship. He swivelled around to face the pair and nodded enthusiastically.

“Ah,” he laughed loudly. “That I did, Banner was there. He can tell you all about it.” Bruce looked at Steve and gave a small shake of his head, mouthing the word _’later.’_ Steve nodded, happy to table the topic of the recent adventures the pair had been on, much preferring the subject of his debilitating headaches, the hallucinations that came along with them, and— most importantly— how to stop them. Bruce must’ve sensed Steve’s urgent energy, because he quickly turned the topic to the issue at hand. “So,” Bruce lowered his voice so only Steve could hear. “James was telling me that you’ve been having some issues? Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” Steve said uneasily, bringing his hand up to rub the back of his neck. “I’ve been having headaches and sorta hearing things, and seeing things.” Bruce raised his eyebrows. He motioned to the kitchen and began walking, Steve following. Clint and Natasha were hovering beside the fridge. Natasha was wearing jeans and a white tee, a leather jacket tied around her waist, and her hair was tied up into a tight bun. Clint had on sweatpants and no top, and his hair was sticking in several directions, not that it ever wasn’t in a messy state. Bruce said a small hello to the pair. Clint must not have heard because he didn’t turn around. And Natasha, with her face twisted in a slight concentration, did little to respond.

She held a grape in her hand and aimed carefully before tossing. Clint, who was sitting on the counter with his legs crossed and hands in his lap and his back to Steve, leaned to the left to catch it. He let out a triumphant cry, his free hand shooting up in the air while the other was gripping the counter’s edge for balance. Bruce shot Steve a look of amusement. Natasha looked at Clint and then nodded to the space over his shoulder where Bruce and Steve were waiting. Clint whipped around, a grape still held between his teeth.

“Hi!” He grinned, swallowing the grape. “How long’ve you two been here?” His gaze travelled between the two, waiting for a response. Steve pulled stare from Clint’s scarred front, the two horizontal lines left under his pecs from the lung transplant he’d had several years back. The scars were darkened and stood out against the pale skin of his torso. Steve remembered when he had found, how amazed he’d been at how far technology had come in the years he’d been frozen. He’d pressed for questions at first, asking about the procedure and how long the recovery time was. He’d been so mesmerized by the advances that had been made that he’d forgotten that it was rude to ask about surgeries. With manners in mind, he tore his gaze from the roughly healed skin and to Clint’s face. It was rude to stare.

“James and I just got here actually,” Steve said. “We’re staying for a few days while we figure something out. James is still talking to Thor I think.” He was, as Steve could hear the story still going on., He had a feeling Thor would fill the entire trip with nonstop stories if he could. Steve might as well send someone to break up the talk— give him a chance to escape to a less one-sided conversation. “They’re in the living room I think,” Steve said, nodding to the door. Clint followed everyone’s eyes to the living room, he lit up.

“James is here? Hell yes!” He slid off the counter. Natasha tossed another grape, calling it while it was in the air. Clint dove to catch it. “Natasha, why didn’t you tell me?” He asked pointedly. He pulled the grape from where he had caught it between his teeth, and threw it at her with a pout. She caught it and tossed it into the sink without looking, where it went right into the drain. “You know my broken-ass ears can’t hear for shit without my aids.”

“Maybe you should’ve considered that before you forgot to charge them,” Natasha countered with a smile. Clint poked his tongue out at her and flipped her off. He dug into the pockets of his joggers and came out with a ziploc baggie filled with tiny pieces of chocolate, broken up so each was the size of a marble. 

“Shove off, Nat.” Clint rolled his eyes. He leaned back on the counter so he was resting on his elbows. He took a handful of pieces from the bag and closed his eyes. “Speed round,” he said. He tossed three into the air, and opened his mouth. Natasha stepped forwards, hitting each one with the palm of her hand, not bothering to watch as they sailed back through the air and landed in Clint’s mouth. Steve managed to catch the small smile play on her lips at the look of surprise on his face. Clint smiled as he chewed all of the pieces. He popped two more chunks into his mouth and offered some to the three of them. They all refused. He shrugged, leaving the kitchen and hollering a loud greeting. Thor enthusiastically responded, his voice drowning James’ softer- spoken greeting. 

“So what brings you two here. I thought your boyfriend wasn’t too fond of us after what happened last time.” Natasha cocked her head to the side, her face showing a flash of curiosity.

“That?” Steve asked with a laugh, “that was uh— that’s okay. He just wasn’t too keen on fighting again is all.” Natasha nodded knowingly, her eyes clouding slightly. The glaze snapped away in a moment as she smiled at the two. Steve glanced at Banner, eager to talk. “We’re actually going to talk if you—”

“Gotcha,” Natasha cut him off. She grabbed the bowl of fruits and walked past, her footsteps quiet on the hardwood floor underfoot. She left the two alone in the kitchen. Through the loud laughter drifting in the air, he could hear Natasha. “Barton— grape!” Banner leaned to peer through the doorway, a fond smile on his face.

“I’ll tell ya,” he chuckled softly, “I didn’t want to join back at first. I wanted to live my quiet life. But these guys are family to me.” Steve smiled at Banner, understanding perfectly the feeling of nostalgia that had washed over his features. He cleared his throat and turned to Steve. “So, headaches?”

“And passing out.” Steve offered, hopping onto the counter and propping his feet up onto the island. “And I keep hearing things— and seeing things. Like from the past? But not things that’ve actually happened.” Banner frowned. Steve’s gaze fell to his lap. What had he been thinking, bringing his migraine issue to Banner? He had more important things to worry about.

“I’ve never really heard of anything like that,” he said softly. “Maybe PTSD? But so many years after…” He trailed off, playing with the hem of his shirt absentmindedly. His face pulled into a frown of deep concentration. Steve licked his lips nervously, already regretting coming here. Thor’s laugh broke the silence once again, followed by a cheering on of Clint. He assumed their foot catching party trick was going well. Banner’s face cleared immediately. “That’s happened to Thor, is it like a— Loki might’ve done this.”


	18. LOKI'S BARGAIN

Loki’s eyes were sunken, his hair knotted— it fell in tendrils over his eyes, and just along his cheekbones and jawline were cuts and fading bruises. The soft light filtered through the thin, white fabric of his shirt, making it glow softly. A metal band clung to his middle underneath his top, just barely visible. The chains leading out pooled at his feet and in his lap, eventually trailing away and connecting to various parts of the floor, ensuring that he wouldn’t escape. They were standing silently at the other side of the one way door, watching him without a word. His breaths came out raspy and faint, almost as if he were trying to breath with a balled up piece of paper in his windpipe. His eyes were cast to the edge of the bed he sat on.

“We didn’t want to.” Bruce shot a look at Steve, his eyes possessing an almost sympathetic air. “He didn’t give us much a choice. Not even two days after the fight, he began ruffling the feathers of the Asgardians. With the hostilities and the anger most of the people held towards him— He wasn’t safe.” Steve nodded quietly. Bruce’s voice was soft, and he kept sneaking glances at Loki. “Are you— d’you think you’re ready?” Steve clenched his jaw and nodded. Bruce reached for the doorknob. The second his hand brushed its surface, Loki’s gaze raised. The door swung open quietly. Steve stepped inside, and Bruce hesitated before following in suit.

“I want to ask you a few things,” Steve began hesitantly. Loki’s eyes glinted with a quiet defiance. He sat up straight in spite of his restraints, heavy and weighing down his slight frame, holding his chin at a slight incline, his mouth set. His disposition of grandiose doing little to hide his lineage of royalty. 

“I’d be better if those baffoons hadn’t tackled me,” Loki said, whisking his head to the side as if he couldn’t be bothered to speak. “Oh— did you not ask how I was doing? My apologies, I must’ve assumed you’d know to be polite.” Steve began sputtering out a soft apology but Bruce stepped forwards.

“Look— Loki, we have to keep you here. It’s for your own safety.” He sounded apologetic. Loki’s eyebrows drew upwards, his angular face tossed into contrast by the setting sun to his left. His sharp jawline casting a shadow across his neck, the darkness nearly hiding the spattering of purple and blue along his shoulders. 

“I find that hard to believe,” Loki snarled, “you and your team of ragtag heros took the liberty of breaking my ribs for me.” He lifted his shirt in a fist, revealing purple and heavily swollen ribs. “The least you could have done is loosen this. Allow me room to breath.” Bruce sighed, running his hands through his hair.

“Loki, I— we had a team of doctors look you over. You’re fine.” Loki glared and pointedly motioned to his ribs all over again; his wordless argument. Bruce took a stride forwards, pressing a firm hand to Loki’s side. “See?” He said when Loki didn’t grimace. “Now stop. You’ll be here another month at most, just until the Asgardians forget what you did.” Loki rolled his eyes. The bruise seeped off of his body in tendrils of purple smoke that dissipated into the air before Steve’s eyes, revealing his perfectly healthy torso. He dropped his shirt and put his hands in his lap, picking up one of the heavy chains and holding it up to the light in inspection. 

“How’re you doing it?” Steve asked. “Making me see the past?” Loki tilted his head to the side upon hearing this, blinking slowly.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to pin on me, but I didn’t do it.” Loki pulled a key from behind one of the pillows beside him, slowly working to undo the chains. Bruce didn’t seem alarmed; he seemed slightly amused if anything. Loki pulled the chains from his lap, stood up, stretched. “I haven’t had any reason to dislike you. I’m not the one you’re looking for.” Steve took a stumbling step backwards as Loki walked towards him. He watched him walk past towards the mirror, where he began inspecting his bruises. The shackles on the bed were in a heavy heap, weighing down the blankets. Stark knew how to spend lavishly, that much wasn’t new. Even his prisoners had life of luxury most hotels wouldn’t even allow their most extravagant customers. 

“But you know what we’re talking about?” Steve nearly scoffed, barely restraining himself. Loki had picked up a bottle of whiskey from the dresser, he held it to the window, observing the way the light was cast through it. 

“Not a clue.” Loki was speaking absentmindedly now. “I do illusions. Not much else.”

“You’re making me see the past,” Steve insisted weakly, hoping so deeply that it _was_ Loki, that he would be able to find an answer— a solution. This was his only hope. “You’re giving me these headaches and making me pass out, these dreams— they’re from you.” Loki turned around, raising an eyebrow. He shook his head.

“Not me, though if it’s a sort of magic as you suspect— I do know who can help,” Loki was putting the bottle back on the dresser. He turned and leaned against it. He brought his hand to the air, and his fingers began contorting. The air just centimeters from its tips began turning whispy, a heavy smoky green. Swirling and churning before them. “He has true powers. His name is Dr. Strange.” A look of recognition flashed across Bruce’s face but he stayed silent. “For the right price, I could help you contact him. If I remember correctly, Stark has a book he wants.” Steve bit his lip, and turned to Bruce. Bruce leaned back slightly as he let out a laugh.

“You forget that I’m a doctor. He’s a friend of a friend, I’ve got his number.” He pulled out his cellphone, clicking it several times before holding it up to show the two of them the contact pulled up. Steve let out a look of relief. Loki let out a slight huff and was struggling to retain his composure. Bruce clicked the phone off and walked to the bed. He swatted at the empty air, his hand coming into contact with nothingness. Loki evaporated immediately and reappeared back in the shackles, glaring up at them. 


	19. A STRANGE ENCOUNTER

“Hello?” Bruce held the phone to his mouth. The silence on the other end was deafening. The speaker of the phone crackled. Steve held his breath, already hoping.

“Who is this?” They simultaneously let out a breath of relief. Banner motioned for Steve to be quiet.

“I’m— this is Banner. Bruce Banner. I’m a friend of Dakota Smith, the hospital you work at—” Steve shifted on the bed they were sitting on the edge of. The door had been closed to block the muffled bellows of laughter. Stark had joined in with the fun too now. 

“Used to work at,” corrected the doctor. “I’m not interested in performing any surgeries. Goodb—”

“No—” Bruce said quickly. “Sorry— this isn’t a surgery. Loki told us you could help— in the department of magic. We can pay.”

“My abilities are not party tricks that can be bought.” But the doctor didn’t hang up. He listened, waited. Bruce shot a look at Steve and nodded.

“We can trade. Stark has a book we can exchange, one we’ve heard you might be interested in.” 

“Ah,” said the doctor on the other line, recognition laved his voice. “Yes— I suppose that would suffice. What would you need done?”

“Well-” Banner began. Steve blinked. His voice sounded distant. “-my-” Steve was losing his balance, swaying. Bruce didn’t notice. “-friend-” Steve was blinking furiously now, trying to get the shapes before his eyes to come into focus. But it was to no avail. “-Steve-” He could hear Banner talking, but it was distant— muffled. Like hearing a song from a house a block away, or listening to a scream through water, or trying to make out a whisper through a wall. Steve fell to the floor. He was standing, everything was black. His hands didn’t exist. He looked down at nothingness. Then there was something. Banner’s voice was farther now, a ringing in his ears. There was something to be heard. A heartbeat— his own. 

“Steve Rogers.” Steve whipped around. The voice was familiar, the one from the other end of the line. Steve could only hear Banner now if he focused. “I’m Doctor Strange.”

“How did you—” Steve trailed off. His voice came out distant, and he felt as if he weren’t truly speaking. The blurry shapes before his eyes came into focus slowly. A figure was facing him, wearing an odd blue outfit. It wasn’t one that seemed to fit into either of the time periods Steve had lived in. 

“Doesn’t matter.” The doctor’s fuzzy figure raised a hand, shaking it dismissively, as if pushing aside his question. The image sharpened. Speckled gray hair was swept back, the loose strands floating— as if weightless— standing in stark contrast to the shifting background he stood against. A scenic mountain, flurries of snow whisked through the air, just barely dusting the exposed boulders; a library at the same time, with aged books and titles in golden letters, in languages that Steve didn’t understand; a room of shadows, nothing and everything all at the same time. Each picture was overlapping the other, visible all at once. Steve’s head hurt just trying to focus on it all. A shifting image he couldn’t seem to process. His head was swimming sohe chose to fixate on the man’s moving mouth, framed by a speckled goatee. “I want Stark’s book,” it was saying. “It’s valuable.” 

“I’m willing to trade it,” Steve said, feeling the words float soundlessly from his mouth, echoing off the vast mountaintops, bouncing off of the spines of the books, being absorbed by the inky blackness. True— it wasn’t his book to give. But Stark had so much money— so many things, none of which held any meaning in his eyes. Steve nearly felt guilty, wagering away the item without permission, but the fresh memory of his headaches and the lack of control they’d brought into his life pushed him to speak. “I’ve been having issues, I don’t know who else to go to.” 

“I know,” said Doctor Strange. He had a gaunt face— hollow cheeks that lended themselves to a look of persistent tire, one brought on with age and wisdom rather than lack of sleep. “The migraines, disorientation, the two seperate lives. I’ll fix it.” His nose, pointed and slightly crooked, was lifted. He was looking to the ceiling, the sky, the void, all at the same time.

“So you can help?” Steve was breathless with relief. The doctor pulled a book off the shelf, and the wind howling through the mountain peaks rustled the pages. He pressed one hand to the page and dropped his other hand from the spine. The book stayed suspended in the air. He raised both hands up into the air, moving them slowly, and the corners of the book’s aging pages fluttered lightly in the gusts. Sparks trailed from his fingertips, etching a circle in the air before him. Steve gulped. “Wait,” he said quickly. The doctor lowered a raised hand, raising a downward angled eyebrow. A spark that had been suspended in the darkness fizzled. He waited.

“Are you having second thoughts?” He pulled the book from the air, snapping it shut and tucking it into the shelf. 

“I want to know what happened.” He felt rude demanding all of these questions when he was unsure if answers even existed. He had come to learn in his time with the Avengers that there was often no explanation to be found, even with all of the technology they had today. He had to try. “Why has this been happening?”

“Time travel.” Steve blinked. “I’ll try to explain it,” the doctor said, holding a breath for a moment. He seemed to be mulling over his thoughts. “When you crashed the ship into the ocean, you weren’t supposed to escape. When you did, you created a separate timeline. Now, normally you might have died, creating a rip in time requires a tremendous amount of energy. But the tesseract— since it was right beside you, it shattered when the timelines split and the energy it gave off—” 

“How do you know this stuff?” Steve asked quickly, frowning. 

“I can see into your mind.” Steve shuddered, suddenly feeling very exposed. “The longer you existed, the greater the tear grew.” Flakes of snow were catching on the hairs of the doctor, clustering along the sides of his head and around his mouth. The wind was picking up, beginning to howl. Steve strained to hear, squinted to see through the white. “You shifted between the two times, travelling through the rip and each time you did, it grew larger. Your mind was stretched thin, trying to process two existences at one time. Your subconscious protested in any way it could. Sometimes through pain, and sometimes through sleep.” The doctor’s voice was booming now, echoing in the void. The low and dragging sound was only sound his senses could pick up on— he was all Steve could see.

“So these weren’t just dreams.” Steve let out a breath. He felt it pass his lips, and his hands fell limp. He had known the truth all along but had been deeply denying. His shoulders slipped. He felt temporarily weightless.

“I need to fix the seam. Now— here is when what you believe to be free will comes into play.”

“What I believe—” Steve shook his head in disbelief. “Are you saying free will doesn’t exist?”

“I don’t have time to explain that. You have a choice.” Steve waited. The doctor’s mouth was pressed thin, his robes were swaying in the wind, down the hall of the open door, the silence in library was only broken by the crackling of a fire. “You can choose to either stay in the time you grew up in, or live in this time period.” He hadn’t quite phrased it as directly, but the choice was plain. Bucky or James. 

“If free will doesn’t exist then I don’t really get a choice then— do I?” Doctor Strange’s face twitched into a bemused smile. Steve crossed his arms, feeling somewhat defensive at the eyes that were fixed onto him. Those pale blue eyes of isolation were filled with knowing. 

“I can’t say I’m surprised to hear that. Yes— I do know what will happen. I know what you’ll choose and I know what you’ll say next. I know that I’m meant to tell you this. Time is not linear, but coexisting. All of it exists at once.”

“I could choose the choice you don’t want me to choose,” Steve countered, tilting his chin in defiance. 

“We’re not here to talk about _choice_. We’re here to talk about what will happen once you choose—”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t talk about it,” Steve huffed, tensing. “How can it be all existing? That doesn’t even make sense, if it really wa—”

“Steven,” Doctor Strange said, his voice soft. He took a step forward, putting a hand on Steve’s shoulders. Strange looked into his eyes. The wind died, the fire’s crackle tapered, and the blackness that had been engulfing the two was all that remained. Steve felt grounded. The touch was all he could feel, the hand heavy on his shoulder. Cold and warm. It was a tangibility in the world that had previously only been abstract. “Stop.” Steve’s shoulders slumped. His head fell as his eyes slowly slipped shut. “Stop stalling.” Steve stayed silent. The doctor continued. “You will forget the other timeline, forget it completely. Once I fix the tear, there’s no going back— the memories will vanish. But... I can allow you an item, something that you can keep. I will carry it over through the tear to whichever side you choose. Now, you may write a letter, keep a photograph, maybe an item of sentimentali—”

“The box,” Steve said. “The small tin box. Everything in it.” The box that Bucky had stolen from the docks. The one that Shield had found for him that was currently in the closet of the apartment he and James shared. In the box were the photographs, including the one of he and Bucky, as well as notes passed in class with small hearts scribbled lightly in the corners. They were written with such feverish caution that they were only visible if you were truly looking.

“Thank you.” Doctor Strange dropped his hand from Steve’s shoulders. Steve stumbled back a step. His feet felt strangely solid on the air underfoot. “Now you need to choose. Bucky or James.”

Steve blinked as tears filled his eyes, and he nodded sharply. He felt the name on his lips, but when he spoke nothing came out. His voice sounded distant, and he couldn’t even make out his own words. Doctor Strange nodded and Steve blinked, stumbling once again. His center of gravity shifted ashe was tugged downwards. The doctor watched him slip away. Steve was falling. His hands outstretched to reach— to grab. Falling. He could hear the air rush past his ears. Falling. Hitting. He was in a heap, eyes shut, too heavy to move. Shifting, being carried. Floating now, sleeping.


	20. A NEW LIFE

“Let me just adjust this,” Thomas said, squinting into the tiny camera on the portable stand he had brought into their new house. Its spindly legs wobbled in the wind, just barely stopped from toppling through the occasional frantic dive on the boy’s part. His thick red hair had fallen from its gel hold in the presence of the winds that had gusted through the wide open windows. The breeze had been pleasant while the sun had been high in the sky, beating down on the uncharacteristically hot day, the heat seeping through the roof and into their apartment without reserve. But now, as the day drew to an end, the September chills had iced the fingers of the winds, leaving their house laced with a hint of the winter that was laid out before them. The clattering of the camera’s wooden legs echoed off the bare walls of the house. Thomas held it steady, peering through the hole and turning a dial. “That should be doing it,” he said with a nod, straightening up. “Smile.” 

Light filled the room, tossing the entire scene into high contrast. The stacked—high boxes were illuminated, their shadows sharp against the drywall. A lampshade became suddenly transparent, it’s shadow revealing the wire structure and bare socket. As quickly as it had come, it disappeared, leaving Steve blinking and straining to see anything through the haze. He pinched the bridge of his nose, frowning. He looked at Bucky to his left, and could just barely make out him rubbing his eyes. Angie was just in front of Bucky, the flesh of her palm pressed tightly to her eyes. Peggy was in front of Steve, blinking. 

“Can we get a few more?” Steve asked, looking up. The light was shining slanted through the large windows, the sounds of the city filtering in from far below. Those next few pictures wouldn’t ever be seen by anyone other than the four of them— five including Thomas. Sure, it was an exception of an apartment building, but still. The risk ran too high. Had Steve not known what the future would hold, he might not even be taking the leap of faith. Could he really count on this boy’s discretion? He wouldn’t be here long enough to find out. He’d have to count on the Sean’s word. Steve had woken up on the rooftop, knowing without having to have been told what would happen. He had until he fell asleep. So had begun the long day of newly ordered furniture, boxes of clothes and photos, introductions from their new neighbors. And now it was coming to an close. The boy nodded knowingly. 

“Sure thing, Steve Rogers,” Thomas said with a cheerful voice. He bent down to peer into his camera, humming that same tune, melodic and soft. Steve grabbed Bucky around the waist and Angie shot a hesitant look at Peggy before visibly shaking off her fears and slinging an arm around her girlfriend’s shoulder. The pairs held their partner close, not bothering to hide their love for once in their life. Thomas’ face remained neutral, guarded, as he pulled himself from the eyepiece to adjust some dials. He held the camera’s stand in a tight, white—knuckled grasp. He stooped down, prompted them to smile, and pressed one of the many buttons once more. Light blinded Steve. Bucky jumped slightly. He heard Angie gasp. The brightness ebbed away, leaving the golden rays of the sun as the only illumination.

“I’ll never get used to that flash,” Angie grumbled, her mellow personality refusing to allow any sense of true anger plague her tone. 

“One more?” Thomas asked, cocking his head to the side in questioning. Peggy shot a look at Angie who shrugged and then nodded. Peggy pressed her lips to Angie’s cheek. Bucky laughed and spun Steve, dipping him comically low and pressing a kiss onto his lips. The camera flashed.

“That should be enough,” Peggy said with a laugh, straightening her shirt. The boy nodded and grabbed his camera from the stand, snapping the stand shut and tucking it under his arm. He dashed out the door to develop the photos, promising to return soon. Steve shut the door after them. He turned to the piles of boxes, each marked with sharpie. Apparently his parents had been more than ready to get rid of Bucky’s belongings, and the items that Steve had left there when he’d left his life in Brooklyn behind. The boxes had arrived at noon, and Bucky’s parents would be there the next day to help unpack. Steve crossed the room and dug into the boxes, searching for the tin box from the docks. The ones with the pictures. The one that he’d asked Doctor Strange to bring to the other timeline.

Ever since he’d woken up, he’d had clarity. Now that he knew, it wasn’t confusing. He was sleeping in the other world, passed out on the couch. James had carried him there after he’d fainted while Bruce had been several words into the phone call. Steve wasn’t ready to wake up yet. Not ready to say goodbye. He’d known a few things when he’d woken up this morning. He knew that this would be his last day. He knew that the second he switched over to the next timeline he’d forget this one and never be able to return. This world would cease to exist to him. He wouldn’t remember Angie, renting this apartment, anything that happened after the ship crash would fail to hold a place in his memories. He knew these things as surely as he knew his name, as readily as he knew where he was from and what year it was. He knew that when he went to sleep, he wouldn’t wake up in this apartment. So, he was ready to stay awake. To fight this as long as he could. 

“Whatcha looking for?” Bucky was at Steve’s side. His head was on his shoulder, and he leaned into Steve’s neck. The breeze rustled some of the now loose packing papers; they fell from the box and skittered across the hardwood floor with purpose.

“The box.” Steve said. He pointed to the ceiling, as they were on the top floor. Just above was the roof they’d spent the night on. “From up there.”

“You think I’d let my parents touch that thing? They can’t mind their own businesses to save their lives.” Bucky snorted. He jerked his thumb to a box of things he’d grabbed himself. “I grabbed that when I went with the movers.” Steve let out a breath. He dug into the cardboard box. On the other side of the room, Peggy and Angie were moving their belongings into their room. The apartment was nice: two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room. It almost made Steve want to stay. He uncovered the tin box; it had been buried underneath a baseball, two hats, and a chess piece Steve had clumsily carved for him when they had been kids. He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a knight or a pawn, an argument could be made for either. He pushed the items aside, wiggling the tackle box free. He looked at it. The handle had fallen off, leaving two squares of tin where it had been welded on. The chains were the only thing holding it shut as the original latch had been knocked crooked.

Steve dug into the box and pulled out a wooden box with spare change. He dumped it out. Bucky leaned into Steve’s side. A coin was glued to the bottom. Steve tugged it up and the felt false bottom come up. Cotton packed tightly inside to keep the keys from rattling— all seven. Steve let out a breath of relief. He sat atop a pile of books, Bucky crossed his legs and lowered himself to the floor. He put his hands in his lap, resting his head on Steve’s leg. He watched Steve pull them out one at a time, each belonging to a lock. Over preparing? Maybe. But still, with a secret like this… 

One by one, the chains fell away. The padlocks clicked open and it all clattered noisily to the hardwood floor. Steve wedged his finger under the rusted latch and popped it upwards, tugging until the hinges gave way with a groan of protest. He shot a sidelong glance at Bucky, whose eyes were glued to the box’s contents. They’d been meticulous in hiding their blossoming teenage romance, acutely aware of just how much was at stake if they were found. He pulled out the pile of photos, allowing them to fall into Bucky’s cupped hands. Steve rested his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder, watching on. A picture of the sunset the two had taken lay on the top, their intertwined fingers just barely visible along the bottom. Another of their legs criss crossing over each other as they relaxed on Bucky’s bed. A blurry photograph the two had captured of a quick kiss they’d pressed onto each other’s lips. A picture of a smaller Steve, leaning back with laughter. He pulled his misting eyes from the pile, turning to an envelope slip filled with tiny notes.

“You’re not gonna get emotional on me are you?” Bucky joked. Steve lightly shoved his head away. 

“In your dreams, Barnes.” He snapped the box shut, putting it on the floor where he’d be able to find it later. He wasn’t sure if he’d write a note. He knew he’d put in the photos from today and the ones from last night— whenever Thomas got around to getting back. “Let’s go see the girls.” Steve stood up, reaching out a hand. Bucky gripped it and held it tight, and Steve hoisted him up effortlessly.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to you being taller,” Bucky said, a soft frown flashing across his features. He twisted his neck slightly so he was looking at Steve. “If I can’t put things on shelves to annoy you, then is it even worth it?” He smiled.

“Doubt it,” Steve laughed. He had to admit, knowing what was going on was helpful. He would feel his head begin to throb every few hours. It had been happening all day. But he’d brush it aside, focus on the scene before him. He had held onto Bucky’s hand or Peggy’s arm, maybe asked Angie to start telling a story— she wasn’t lacking in that department. He’d need something to focus on, something instead of James’ voice calling his name, Bruce asking if he could hear him, or Natasha comforting James in Russian. It had worked so far. Steve wasn’t sure how much time had passed in the… other timeline. Maybe a day, two, maybe only a few hours. He wasn’t sure how time worked between the two worlds. A part of him was sad that he wouldn’t be able to find out. He glanced at the box, and then looked up at Bucky. He wished he could take more.


	21. A MODEST PROPOSAL

Steve looked at the twinkling lights of the oh so familiar view down below, replaying the nights of his younger years over and over in his head: he and Bucky, up on the rooftop, holding each other close, wondering about the upcoming war, wondering if Bucky would be drafted, knowing that Steve wouldn’t. A goodbye hanging on their lips that neither of them wanted to say, thoughts that the two of them couldn’t seem to find it in themselves to articulate. An utterance neither of them wanted to have to voice. It was a distinct feeling, one that Steve had never been sure could be conveyed, truly captured, with words. He had tried to over the years. It had been lost feeling he’d written in his journals, a distance that left him feeling isolated in spite of physical nearness. A desire to just hold them tight and feel close one more time before— before— before what? Before the goodbye. Before the draft. It was a lost feeling. Steve had been sure he’d never have to experience it ever again. He’d been wrong. 

Music lulled the flat into a slow dance, as if winds were seeping through the shut windowpanes and entrancing the four into a unknowing sway. The fuzzy sound floating from the record player was old, as if playing several rooms away. It seemed to be fighting to be heard through shut doors. Steve felt just as distant, as if he was screaming in his own mind. Screaming at himself to say goodbye, to hold Bucky close one last time, to salute Peggy, to tell Angie that he wished her the best. He wanted to scream out, tell them that at the end of the night, whenever he fell asleep, this world would end. He never would have demanded a rescue mission for Bucky; he would be in the ocean by this time in another world. Peggy would not have gone to get a celebratory drink at that restaurant, rejoicing in the news of Steve’s survival, nearly two weeks after the ship’s crash. Angie never would have met Peggy. They would never fall in love, and Angie would never join the war as a nurse. Steve squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to cry out at them, tell them to run. 

_Run from what? Their fate?_ That’d been tried before. His family was condemned to an eternity of inexistence. Steve hated himself for it. No one should be allowed to decide who lived and who didn’t. That’s what this entire war had been about. he pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes. He shouldn’t have been given this choice. His hand was pressed against the cold glass of the window. The icy air was soaking through the glass pane and thin walls, making him shiver. 

“Steve?” He startled, surprised to hear his own name. He pulled his conscious from the wandering thoughts to the present. He turned, slowly, matching the speed of the tune lazing its way from the record. Bucky was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, playing with his hands, he looked pale.

“You okay, Buck?” Steve asked, his throat dry, wishing he could turn back to the time of not knowing.

“Yeah.” The unconvincing response was accompanied by a stifled laugh. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well,” Bucky started again. He coughed, “no, actually, I’ve got a thing to say.” 

“Don’t let me stop you,” Steve said with a smile, pushing aside his worries, remembering that this was the last night he’d ever get to spend with Bucky. He had to live in the present. Steve sat on a pile of books and patted a box beside him. His boyfriend didn’t take it, just shook his head and let out a small breath. He visibly steeled himself before speaking.

“Lemme just start this off by saying I’m gonna sound cheesy as hell, so just—” His breath caught and he slowly let it out through gritted teeth. “Just let me just do this.” A silence spanned between the two, seeming to stretch out over an entire hour even though it only lasted for five ticks of the clock. The sound of the second—hand was soft but almost painfully loud in the absence of words. “I know that going into this whole dating thing neither of us expected it to last this long,” Bucky continued, raised his eyes to meet Steve’s. Steve saw a vulnerability in his watery blue irises. He wanted to reach out and quell his worries right now— but knew Bucky wasn’t done speaking. “I mean— hell, I thought you only kissed me back when we were kids to cheer me up.” A warmth spread in Steve’s chest at the memory. The corners of his mouth were tugged upwards in spite of his efforts to suppress it.

“I never— I hadn’t ever considered me living through the war a possibility. I thought I’d die like every other average guy in the war, and I was okay with that.” Bucky’s eyes broke from Steve’s at this. He cast his gaze to the dark window at his left, his glazed over eyes remaining unfocused. “But you never saw me as average— did you?” Bucky snapped from his daze, looking at Steve now, as if seeing him for the first time. He was mirroring his small smile now. “You saw me as something worth fighting for, and damn did you fight. Real fucking hard. Standing up for me back in those alleyways, even when you knew there was no chance in hell you’d win. You fought so I wouldn’t have to do it alone.” Steve brought a hand to cover his mouth as he broke out into a smile, those bitter fights now a sweet memory of their childhood. “And then you— you stormed into that base guns blazing and I damn near didn’t recognize you in your getup, that was a hell of an introduction to the new Steve.

“And just a few months ago, I fully expected to fall asleep in that snowy ditch of a ravine and not wake up.” As these words left his mouth, Bucky’s hand raised to gingerly touch the scarred limb that their medical team had just barely been able to salvage. “But you weren’t going to let me go that easy— were you? You saved me from those sickos and saved the arm they couldn’t be bothered to deal with. I’m whole because of you Steve, but most importantly, I’m happy because of you.” Steve let out a breath and closed his eyes, trying to blink away the mist that had blurred his vision. “You gave me a second chance at life and you see, I’ve always thought it’d be me saving you ‘till the end of our miserable days. But that’s changed. You’ve been saving me, and at first I wasn’t sure what to think of it, but now I see you’re just repaying the favor— that we’re saving each other. I’m happy to spend the rest of my life saving you and _getting_ saved by you. As long as it means I get to be with you.” 

Bucky was standing just a foot from Steve now, looking down at him with his sparkling eyes, a smile playing on his lips. He brought one foot back and sank to his knee. Digging into his pocket and pulling out a small box.

“Steve,” he said softly, his face near touching Steve’s. “I never want to leave your side.” Bucky’s laugh tickled Steve’s nose. Steve held his breath as if it were the last he would ever take. “Will you marry me?” Steve let out the air in the form of a shuddering sob and nodded his head yes. He tackled Bucky, tangling his arms around his neck and rolling to the floor, pressing their foreheads together. 

“Yes,” he whispered with a laugh, absolutely elated. “Yes, yes, yes. Of course I will.” Their fingers found each other and the box clattered to the floor as Bucky brought his hand up to cup Steve’s face. He held it gingerly, as if Steve were a glass statue. They leaned into each others’ touch as their heads came to rest softly on the hardwood floor. As their foreheads pressed together, their breathing deepening, and their eyelashes beginning to flutter shut, Steve felt a wave of drowsiness fall over him, one he knew he shouldn't fight. He could almost hear the doctor’s voice. _‘Steven,’_ the memory echoed in his head. _‘Stop it. Stop stalling.’_ Steve knew, he knew he couldn’t avoid the inevitable indefinitely. But he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try. 

“Steve?”

_‘Steven’_

“Yes?” Steve said, willing himself to ignore the voice of reason in his head. He’d forget this night anyways, why was he trying so hard? The second he’d wake up this version of himself would cease to exist. Maybe he wasn’t just scared for his friends.

“Are you okay?” Steve’s lips parted as a response rose to his tongue, he kept himself from letting it slip past. He couldn’t worry Bucky with this, not now.

_‘Stop it.’_

“Yeah,” his chest rose and fell as he let out a deep chuckle, he turned to his back, splaying his legs out and looking at the ceiling. The plaster was yellowing and sagged, seemed restraining, too close, too infinitesimal for such a grand moment. His final day alive. He yearned for the stars up on the rooftop, the glassy reflection on the still water at night when not even a ripple dared to interrupt the peace. He wanted to Bucky to offer him a cigarette, because he knew James never would. He wanted to cough and grimace at the thick smell of the cigarette trail he’d come to hate. He wanted Bucky to roll his eyes and spring a smoky kiss unto his cheek. Just like he always did. And Steve wanted to huff, wanted to cross his arms and pretend, knowing that neither of them were fooled, that he hated the action. Tears sprung to his eyes. Both. Why not both? “I’m just…” he couldn’t find the words to voice the gaping chasm he felt. “I’m just really looking forward to getting to spend my life with you.”

“I’m the one who’s got an excuse to be excited,” Bucky chastised, “I get to marry my childhood crush. You have no idea how many times I’d imagined that conversation.” Bucky shifted, the wooden floor creaked against his weight as he sat upwards. “Let’s celebrate.”

“Yes.” Steve gasped for the word as if it were air. He’d been slowly submitting himself to the ocean of sleep. He resisted even further. He wasn’t sure how long he had left. “I— please.” He laughed. “Hell yes.” Bucky was taken aback by the enthusiasm. It was a surprise, his face revealed that much, but a welcome one. He let out a soft sigh, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re a handful, Rogers. Y’know that?” Before Steve could respond, Bucky raised his voice. “Peggy!” he called, “Angie! Get in here.” They peered around the door frame, a knowing look on their giddy faces. 

“Took you long enough,” Angie said as she rolled her eyes. She walked out, tugging out Peggy, leading by their loosely looped fingertips. 

“Ah shut it,” Bucky grumbled. He turned to Steve, his frown melted into a smile and he tugged him closer. “Let’s go to the roof.” Bucky had fished his hands into his pockets, pulling out a brand new key, their key. He stooped over to pick up his jacket, it had been dropped into a heap hours before and they hadn’t found a spare moment to bother picking it up.

 _Will I remember that jacket?_ Steve wondered. He knew the answer, he wished he didn’t. Steve didn’t want to sleep, didn’t want to forget.

“Go ahead and clear up a spot,” Steve said, patting Bucky’s sturdy shoulder, it fit so well into the shape of his hand. “I’ll catch up.”

“You sure?” Bucky asked, raising his eyebrows. Steve gave a wordless nod, a response catching in his throat. He couldn’t force it out. An understanding seemed to pass amongst the group, no one argued. The three left, Steve was there— alone. He let out a laugh, a smile adorning his face, his calloused hands tugged themselves through his hair. He stooped over to pick up the ring box, he opened it. It was a tiny band, golden. Steve pulled it out and slipped it on to his finger, marvelling at how well it fit. He shot a glance at the box, mocking him in its rusty state. For a flash of a moment he hated it. It would remember tonight, he never would. He wasn’t going to make it. This proposal would fall a victim to time and remain forgotten. He tugged the ring off, wanting to preserve it before it slipped his mind. He returned it to the box, clicking it shut. He gingerly placed it into the metal confines of the rusted tin, returning the beloved photographs and notes into their rightful places. 

He stood, dusting off his pant legs and shuddering to wake himself from his stupor. Be present.

 _Stop stalling._

He strode to the door, allowing himself a smile, he was engaged after all. To the man of his dreams. He should enjoy the night. He walked down the hallway, the flickering light overhead making him squint to see clearly. The new landlord had been kind enough to grant them a key to the roof, saying that it was usually off limits but that he’d be more than happy to allow an exception. Steve tried the handle, it turned with little protest. A steep set of stairs greeted him, no light fixtures let the way. He looked to the sound of laughter, hushed giggles and a whoop of glee. Upwards he went. 

The door to the roof was seldom used, the doorknob was newer and easier to open, it had been left unlocked. The sound of his family greeted him: their joyful laughs. Steve broke out into a broad grin, making his way over to where the group had settled. They lay down, staring at the night sky. It was bruised, a deep purple turning black and blue. It reminded Steve of all of the fights he and Bucky had recovered from up here. He settled on the ground, resting his head on Bucky’s stomach. His head rose and fell with his breaths, he could hear his heartbeat. He looked upwards at the stars, dotting the sky in a brilliant array of speckings. Their golden twinkles were more prominent farther away from where the sun had set earlier that night, he could just barely discern a brighter hue on that end of the horizon. Darkness was coming.

“Thank you, Bucky.” Steve spoke softly as these words passed his lips, Peggy and Angie wouldn’t hear it over their laughter and conversations. Bucky’s hand found its way to Steve’s chest, their fingers intertwined. 

“What for?” His laugh reached Steve’s ears and Steve found himself wanting to allow the story to stumble forth. He held it in, they’d been worried about his dreams for long enough, why bring it back now? Steve gave Bucky’s hand a squeeze.

“Being stupid enough to propose.” He laughed his worry away, he was glad for the darkness, for the protection it granted to his joyless face. Why couldn’t he just relish the moment? He gave Bucky’s hand a squeeze.

“Ah put a sock in it,” Bucky said with a good natured grumble. He didn’t speak for a moment, they listened to the car horns below, they sounded distant. There was shouting, coming from a nearby bar no doubt. He could hear the wind whistling through the city, reaching upwards towards the sky. “Remember our first kiss up here?” Steve nodded.

 _Remember our last?_

He pushed the thought away, remembered the darkness, and hummed in agreement. 

“I never thought that it’d all end this well, with all of us happy like this. This is the dream, Rogers.” Steve felt tears spring to his eyes. He was seized by the moment, he reached over and twisted, pulling Bucky’s lips to his own. He kissed him slowly, their mouths moving together in a shared motion, their breaths entangling and eyes slipping shut. Steve could feel the tiredness sweeping over him. 

_Not now. Not now dammit._

It was Bucky that pulled away, Steve had to resist the urge to tug him in for another.

“It never gets old,” Bucky said softly, their foreheads were pressed together, Steve’s eyes were stinging in the dark. “I remember that night so vividly, I remember thinking that no kiss would ever feel that good— that nothing would ever come close to that one moment I’d been waiting on for so long.” He let out an affectionate laugh. “I love that I was wrong.”

“Me too,” Steve said softly. Bucky shifted slightly, the using the crate to his side to lean up against. He sat with Steve between his legs, he ran his fingers through his hair. The wooden boards groaned as Steve put his weight on Bucky’s stomach. Bucky’s hand strayed from Steve’s head, fishing into his pocket. He pulled out a lighter, along with a carton of pink _Marlboro_ cigarettes. Steve pressed his eyes shut, he’d known this had been coming. He couldn’t remember a single day up here where Bucky hadn’t smoked. He wondered if he’d get a kiss. He let out a breath, sinking into his boyfriend— now fiance’s— stomach. The small click was accompanied by a tiny glow of light. Steve could see it through his closed eyelids. The smell of smoke wafted down to him, being carried away by the wind.

He lay there, listening to Peggy tell Angie about the future they’d have together. Angie would occasionally interject to tweak the life plan, Peggy had no objections. He listened to a boat’s horn as it returned to the docks, a yelp from the streets below, a cats call. He wanted it to stay. He didn’t want this moment to leave. He inhaled the smoke, loving it intensely for the first time in all his life. He reached a hand up, his fingers already beginning to feel weak, and loosely grabbed Bucky’s free hand. He held him close, his head moving up and down with each lungful of air. Their breathing was shared. Steve wanted to open his eyes, stare up at the vast night sky, untainted by the pollution of light that would come to plague the future. He wanted to see the stars and to remember this life in all of its glory. He didn’t want to forget the diner, that squeaky oboe playing on the record, he wanted to live through the hell of camp life, he wanted to go through it all. But he didn’t regret his choice.

Steve’s hand went limp, he was in his final moments, that much he knew. And thus, so was everyone else around him. A wave of indifference washed over him, he smelled in the smoke. Bucky must have felt Steve’s breathing slow because— in Steve’s final moment of consciousness— he felt a small, smoky kiss being pressed onto his forehead. 

_Stop stalling._

And so, Steve stopped.


	22. A LIFTED WEIGHT

It was a void, a blankness that one can only ever recall when they look back on a night of dreamless sleep. It was a sense of nothingness that saturated his entire sense of being, a calm darkness that that took everything and left him feeling nothing. Nothing. A lack of sensation, not born from a numbness to the surroundings, but rather from a lack of input to be processed. There were no memories, there was nothing; the darkness had no beginning or end, it just was, just as Steve was. Or— had been. His fingertips were beginning to take shape. Form and solidify. Similar to the memories that were finally resurfacing. Coming slowly at first, quicker now, each moment of his life a puzzle piece to the enigma of his physicality. He was remembering, feeling. he could sense the surface he was laying on— could hear a soft breathing. 

The memories were coming back stronger now. The name James rose to his lips. He tried to open his mouth, but his muscles were heavy and he was weak. Oh so weak. The darkness was tangible now— a thickness that slowed his movements. Steve could feel his arms, his ears, his nose. He could feel his veins, coursing with his life. He heard the breathing, felt the soft brush of air that travelled across his outstretched hand with each exhalation that reached his ears. The darkness was stiff, and his eyelids were heavy. Steve couldn’t move any farther. He was laying down,and he felt something atop him, tangling around his legs, covering his shoulder. He tried to reach out and only succeeded in scratching the surface below his fingertips. It was smooth and cool. Steve twisted his hand and shifted, pulling it closer. The breathing across from him stopped.

Steve listened but didn’t hear anything. He wanted to call out. _James._ It rose to his lips again. All that left him was a soft mumble, an unintelligible sound. He tried to open his eyes— and was only able to just barely twitch them shut tighter. He could smell the surface beneath him, earthy and sweet. He moved his fingertips again. Smooth. Steve shifted his legs, trying to lift his head. He opened his eyes. The room around him was dark, and he could just barely make out the eyes staring at him, just a foot from his own. They were a patient blue, a safe color, one filled with familiarity. The corners of Steve’s mouth twitched upwards slightly. James stared back, a melting look of warmth spreading across his face. He reached out, his movements quick compared to Steve’s, more in control. Steve felt a cool metal brush against his cheek. He lifted his hand, ignoring its heaviness, and touched the fingertips. 

“James,” Steve said, his voice deep and rough. It sounded like two rocks grating against each other. Steve’s throat was dry, his lips cracked. He wanted to ask how long he had been here, but couldn’t muster up the ability to speak another word. Not just yet. Steve felt tired. So tired. He wanted to sink into the couch, to go back to the dark place. To the thoughtless place. He wanted to rest. He wanted to— his thought stumbled, fell. He felt a memory begin to surface, a slight disturbance in the blankness of his mind. He tried to reach for it, but it eluded him; the more he tried to recall it, the farther away it seemed. He looked at James, at the blue eyes staring at him, and found solace. “What time is it?”

“It’s been nineteen hours,” James said, his eyes dropping to Steve’s gaze. He looked at the surface they were laying on, noticing it was leather. Steve shifted his hand and tangled his fingers with James’, bringing it close to his chest. He could feel his heartbeat, and he wondered if James could feel it too. Steve could feel the slight pulsing of the metal arm, the electrical signals that matched the pace of his heart. They were faster than Steve’s. “Banner said you shouldn’t have been out that long for such a small fall, especially with the serum. We were getting worried.”

“It’ll be harder than that to get rid of me,” Steve joked weakly, each word feeling like a lump of crumpled sandpaper he was forcing up. It was worth it though, to see James’ creased forehead smooth— to see his eyes crinkle at the sides. James moved himself closer to Steve, and he could feel his breath again. A soft warmth. He wanted to stay here and sleep. He felt the tiredness slipping away, like a falling tide slipping through rocks, present but unreachable. He let out a breath, where it mingled with James’. He slowly moved his other hand, pressing against the leather cushion beneath him, and sat up. The blanket that had been tossed over him fell to gather around his waist. Steve rubbed his cheek where it had been pressed against the leather. He was weak, his muscles still not quite awake. “Why aren’t we on our floor?”

“Banner said not to move you again,” James said, looking apologetic. “Let’s go tell the team you’re here.” James pulled his hand from Steve’s, looping his hand around his waist and urging him to stand. Steve stumbled, completely unable to support himself. He was glad for the mechanical arm, the one that was now just under his arm, holding him upright. Steve shuffled his feet slowly, still leaning on James. His head rested on his shoulder, and he could feel the area where skin ended and metal began. James brought them to the door. “JARVIS?” James’ voice was still uneasy, even after all these years, talking to a computer.

“Yes, Mr. Barnes?” The automated voice was soothing. The room leapt to life. The lights along the floors lit up an electric blue, the same comforting shade as James’ eyes, the bands of light tracing along the perimeter of the room at the floor and ceiling. The lights were soft, a gentle glow more than anything else. Steve was thankful for the quiet light. He closed his eyes, turning his face so his head was buried in James’ hair. He knew that he would have to face the brightness of the ceiling lights once the door opened, but for now... James’ human hand had crossed across to rest on Steve’s chest to hold him steady. It was a comforting presence. The tide was falling farther still, and he was finally waking up, however reluctantly.

“Can you open the door?”

“Yes Sir.” There was a soft click as the soundproof door deactivated itself, and Steve could suddenly hear a roar of laughter. 

“Good to know they’re worried about their captain,” Steve grumbled. The door swung open. The laughter was coming from down the hall. The light was bright. Steve scrunched his eyes shut. James was walking now, Steve stumbling along beside him. He was finding his strength, relying on the steadiness of his boyfriend a little less with each step.

“They only left because I made them,” James laughed nervously. “They were crowding me— you. They were crowding the room. It was a lot.” Steve was slowly opening his eyes, squinting. He looked up at James whose eyes flitted down so their gazes could meet. Steve lifted his head, and brought a hand up to rub his sore neck. He took slow steps, stretching with each one.

“Thanks for staying with me,” Steve said.

“Please,” James scoffed. “I had to be there in case you said anything embarrassing in your sleep. Prime blackmail material.” Steve laughed, the stale air leaving his lungs. 

“You’re a jerk,” Steve grumbled. He pressed a kiss onto the side of James’ face. He heard the team just around the corner. He stopped, pulling James to him. He held him half an arm’s length away and looked him in the eyes. “Look, James.” James looked confused and tilted his head to the side at the sudden seriousness. “I’m sorry for the elevator— I don’t know what happened.”

“It’s okay,” James promised. He laughed with a bitter smile. “I was being stupid, I thought that there was an issue when there wasn’t. I think I was just worried about coming back here, about…” he trailed off and glanced at the end of the hall. He continued, his voice weak, “Joining.” Steve nodded knowingly. James had closed his eyes tight, whispering under his breath in Russian, consoling himself. After a few moments he stopped, looking at Steve. He waited for him to keep talking.

“It wasn’t stupid,” Steve said as he gave James’ arm a reassuring pat. “Look, I can get that that’d be weird. I don’t know why I hesitated on the elevator, I couldn’t still love Bucky. He’s— he's dead. He has been since you fell of that train. I’ve mourned, all I have now is love for you.” The feeling of a lost memory resurfaced, but Steve pushed it aside— with less reluctance this time. He looked at James, at his face. The face that he’d fallen in love with twice.

“I know,” James said, rolling his eyes and trying to hide a smile. He leaned forwards and kissed Steve lightly. “Let’s go beat them at whatever they’re playing.” 

“Hell yeah,” Steve grinned. They rounded the corner, and saw the entire couch was occupied by the team. Natasha was stretching her legs so they could reach the tabletop, Clint laying on her lap. She had one hand on his head, running through his hair, while the other was holding a cup with a clear liquid that Steve could only assume was alcohol. A striped twisty straw looped out of it and lolled left and right with the movement of her hand. Clint was tossing assorted foods into the air, catching them with shut eyes. Pepper was on the couch next to Loki, listlessly scrolling through her phone while the other rested on Loki’s chain which was rooted firmly in the floor. Thor was apologetically offering a bowl of chips to his brother and doing all he could to lessen the frost of his stare. 

“Hey, Steve,” Natasha said without looking up from Clint’s attempt at balancing a strawberry on his nose. Clint raised up a hand in a wave, cross eyed in his focus. Loki glanced over. His stare grew colder still, his chin raised, and he looked at them down his nose. Steve tried his best to return the gaze but found himself glancing away. James, having no such compunctions, flipped Loki off. Pepper glanced up and nodded at them, smiling warmly.

“Feeling better?” She clicked her phone off and tucked it inter her pocket. James put his hand away. Steve nodded back and she brightened. She glanced down at a section of the couch hidden from Steve and then back up to him. “I don’t think he’s too mad, but just be prepared for him. Stark, captain's here.” Tony’s head swung into view as he sat up. He squinted at the light and focused on Pepper, raising a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. She nodded in Steve’s direction. Tony followed her gaze groggily, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He straightened his graphic tee and tossed his arm over the couch. 

“Cap,” he grumbled, shifting to face Steve. “Gamble your own goddamn books.” Tony raised a clear glass with an amber colored liquid inside and inspected it before taking a careful sip.

“Game night’s bland,” Steve whispered. Bruce was asleep on the couch. 

“They were hoping you’d wake up before it started, got some time to pass the time and… just didn’t stop drinking,” James said with a shrug. He held the sofa’s backing firmly and hopped over, plopping just beside Clint. The strawberry fell and tumbled soundlessly to the ground. Steve stepped over the couch and sat next to James.

“Game night?” Steve offered. Thor turned around at that and smiled, nodding. Steve was still unused to his short hair, and he made a note to ask for the story before the night ended. Maybe not from Thor though, as he could talk for hours. Maybe Bruce.

“Depends,” said Tony sarcastically. “Are you going to _veto_ all the fun games?” His eyes narrowed as he said _‘veto_. _’_

“I say no to the dangerous games,” Steve corrected as he crossed his arms. Tony rolled his eyes. “Skydiving without parachutes isn’t a game night thing.” 

“I would’ve caught you all.” Tony rolled his eyes. Steve let out a laugh of exasperation.

“Sir,” said JARVIS, “would you like to continue your game of Never Have I Ever?” Tony glared at the ceiling while Clint let out a loud howl of laughter and sat up. Natasha was laughing too. She’d pulled her legs from the table and was leaning forwards. Pepper was giggling as she prodded Bruce until he began to stir. Steve shot a glance at Loki, the corners of his mouth had twitched into a suppressed smile.

“Thanks asshole,” Tony grumbled at the ceiling, raising a glass and taking a sip of his whiskey. He turned to the rest of them, unphased by their laughing. He propped is feet up on the table and leaned back into the cushions. “You don’t know what you’re missing though. It’s a fun game.”

“What’s a fun game?” Bruce asked, grabbing his glasses from the table and putting them on. He looked at Steve and smiled. “Oh, hey Steve.”

“Hey.” 

“We’re gonna play Never Have I Ever,” James said. He frowned. “I’ve never played that before though. What is it?”

“A slumber party game.” Natasha was laughing. “Stark, who were you playing that with?”

“I’m in,” Bruce said before Tony could answer. “Anything’s better than playing Monopoly with you maniacs.” Thor frowned.

“No,” he disagreed, “I quite like that game. It is fun when Loki makes you imagine the money towers where they are not.” Loki perked up at this idea. Steve remembered just how quickly the team had been pitted against each other that night. He had to admit that it had been fun. 

“JARVIS,” Tony barked. “First question, send it to Pepper.” Pepper protested but her phone dinged. Tony was pouring them all drinks now. He slid one in the general direction of each of them.

“Never have I ever,” she read, squinting. “Made out in a bathroom.” She plopped her phone down and rolled her eyes. “If you’ve done it, take a drink.” Steve and James both leaned forwards, Steve blushing slightly. Tony had his in hand too a small boastful look on his face, along with Natasha, Bruce, and Clint. Thor grabbed two of the glasses and handed one to Loki, who took it reluctantly. Pepper grabbed hers, and they all looked at each other and shrugged before taking a sip, save for Bruce.

“Really?” Tony asked, raising his eyebrows. “Gee, I mean. I knew you were a dork but c’mon.” He laughed. Bruce chuckled lightly, shrugging.

“Eh,” he said, “it’s just, never been my thing.” Tony tossed a hand in the air in disbelief but didn’t press. Pepper’s phone buzzed.

“Never have I ever made out with someone of the same sex.” 

“Okay, okay,” Clint said with a laugh, running his fingers through his hair. “When we say sex do we mean—”

“Everyone voting in favor of the chromosomes rule?” Tony asked, cutting Clint off. Clint didn’t seem to mind. The group shrugged and nodded. Steve’s eyes shifted around in confusion, unsure of what that had to do with the question.

“Chromosome rule?” He frowned. He shot a look at James, finding no answers in his guarded blue eyes.

“Not every guy has XY chromosomes,” Pepper reminded him. “And vice versa.”

“We’re an inclusive team.” Bruce was nodding. He turned to the group now before speaking again.

“Inclusive of who?” It was James speaking this time, his brow was furrowed, and his face mirrored Steve’s confusion.

“Guess who,” Clint said, laying down on the couch again and tossing his legs across Natasha’s lap. He was grinning and doing jazz hands. Steve laughed, although he was still a little unsure of what that entire exchange had meant. “Alrighty then,” Clint laughed, leaning forwards and grabbing his drink. “Same sex, I’m drinking. You too Nat.” Natasha rolled her eyes, but she held up her cup and they clinked theirs together before taking a drink from the glasses. Steve brought his cup away from his lips and held it up to James’. They tapped theirs together, both taking a drink. Loki tilted his head back and finished his entire glass. Smirking, he asked Tony if there was anything stronger. 

“Pepper, top his drink off,” Tony said. He looked at the group and laughed. “That’s always a fun question.” Pepper pulled a bottle from a cooler underneath the table and filled Loki’s glass. Thor jumped at the opportunity for stronger alcohol. Tony held his hand in the air and waved it around, JARVIS picking up on the movement. Pepper’s phone buzzed again.

“Why can’t JARVIS read them,” Pepper grumbled as she set her drink down to open her phone. “Woken up in a strange place without knowing how I got there.” The entire group laughed at this, taking a collective drink without hesitation. Stark waved his hand, another ding.

“Dated more than one person at once.” Steve looked around the room at this one, but only Thor and Loki drank. He’d been expecting Tony as well if he was being honest. “Really?” Pepper asked. “Loki I’d expect, but you Thor?” Loki’s eyes narrowed and his face fell into a glare. He crossed his arms tight across his chest, similar to the way Clint always did when uncomfortable.

“No,” Thor said, shaking his head and wiping the drink from his face where it had gathered on his lip. He put the cup on the table. “See, you mortals are different with this. Both of them knew. It is not a thing to look down on.” Steve shook his head. He wasn’t sure if he agreed with the Asgardian morals. James didn’t seem as concerned, which he supposed made sense. He’d lost a lot of his grip on society when he’d come back from being turned into an assassin. To James, anything went. Pepper got another text. She opened her mouth to speak and caught herself, smiling and choking down a chuckle before reading it off.

“Never have I ever slept with a subordinate.” Everyone looked at Tony. He shrugged and took a drink, the only one who did.

“Tradition calls for me telling the story but I’ve honestly lost count of how many times that’s happened so I’ll spare you the details.” He was pouring himself more as he chuckled lightly. Steve was more than happy with leaving the topic to rest.

“Thank God,” Steve grumbled. Tony had never quite learned how to keep his mouth shut, and it had gotten the team into trouble on more than one occasion. Thor heard Steve and let out a deep laugh. He looked at the ceiling and happily demanded that JARVIS send another question. Pepper sat ready.

“Never have I ever skipped school.” 

“What are we?” Tony said with a bark of laughter. “High Schoolers? JARVIS take that one off the list.”

“Yes, sir.” A pause was promptly followed by a beep. “Done, sir.”

“Never have I ever been held anywhere against my will.” Pepper sighed and shut off her phone. “We’re all outliers. We’ll all be wasted in ten minutes if we keep playing.” Steve quietly agreed. He could already see the alcohol taking hold on the team. Even Thor’s face was starting to redden. Granted, he had been drinking continuously from a flask he’s pulled from his sweatshirt pocket. Something stronger, Steve assumed, something Asgardian. Steve shot a look at James, who looked tired too. Steve had an itching feeling in the back of his mind, a feeling that he had somewhere to be. He couldn’t seem to figure out why. He shifted so he was closer to his boyfriend. The group’s focus had been broken, and now they were back to talking amongst themselves. Loki was talking with a second version of himself. Bruce had pulled out his phone, eager to stop. He’d never been one for those types of games. 

“What do you say we go back to Brooklyn?” Steve asked, knowing that no one would hear his hushed voice in the increasingly loud room.

“We just got here,” James laughed. “We were going to leave after dinner tomorrow. Want to push that back to the morning?” Steve’s eyes glazed over, the feeling of unease still holding loosely onto his thoughts. He wish he knew what was bothering him. He shook his head. He looked at James’ face. He found his heartbeat steadying, his worry ebbing away. He let out a breath and smiled, grabbing James’ face and pulled him close. He pressed a quick kiss onto his cheek.

“I want to push it back to now.” Steve pulled away and nodded to the hall they’d come from. “I’ve spent the past however many hours passed out and I kind of what to spend time with you.” James leaned into Steve’s hand, a soft smile playing on his lips. “You know how crabby I am after waking up. You’re sorta the only person who won’t get on my nerves.”

“Look at you, you sound like an old man,” James joked. Steve pushed him lightly in the chest with a gasp of offence. 

“You’re an old man.” Steve rolled his eyes. He pulled his hand from James’ face and grabbed his hands. “I don’t wanna stay here.” He heard the whine in his voice, heard the restless energy. He didn’t want to sleep. James must’ve heard it too, must’ve seen Steve’s tapping foot, because he quickly relented.

“Fine,” he said softly. Steve lit up. “But not to Brooklyn. We’re guests and we’re _not_ leaving early. A night out and about though, how about that?” Steve wanted to get out of here and drive with the windows down and the music blasting, with the wind in their hair and cooling their skin. He wanted to have the sound of their laughs tugged away by their speed as they sped down the highway. He wanted to get drunk on the night with laughter and a haze of music. Steve glanced around at the room; it looked suddenly so drab—so dull. “Let’s go.” James smiled at him, mirroring his energy and excitement. The will to take the night and make it theirs was alive in them both. Steve laughed. “Let’s go get Stark’s car and _go_.” James squeezed Steve’s hands with a breathless smile.

“Let’s do it.”


	23. MIDNIGHT MEMORIES

Steve tugged James along behind him, the two of them laughing against each other in between moments of feverish steps. Steve pulled him close and ducked into an alley, he pressed a kiss onto his face. James pulled away, leaning against boyfriend’s heaving chest. They’d just been thrown out of a bar. Steve wasn’t quite sure what it had been for. It was a haze of laughter and shoving and then just a little bit of hand throwing. 

“Shh,” Steve giggled, holding a hand over his own mouth in an attempt to stay quiet. They were shushing each other now, a passerby shot them an odd look and began walking quicker. “Hey,” Steve said between stifled laughs, “we’ve— we’ve gotta be— shhhh! We’re gonna be found!” He was laughing. He wasn’t sure why they were hiding, finding two seemingly drunk men in the city wasn’t high on the list of any bouncer’s priorities. They were in the richer part of town, the part with five star restaurants stacked atop each other and business people rushing for a midnight snack before returning to work. Going to the firm, the office, wherever they needed to be. The buildings scraped the clouds above them, sometimes revealing the moon shining down. Steve wrapped his arms around James and pressed a gentler kiss onto his forehead.

“Hey,” James said with a small laugh. “I think we’re lost.” Steve scanned their surroundings. He supposed that that would be correct. He hadn’t the slightest idea of where they might be, they’d sloppily excused themselves from the game only to wander the city streets. One bar to the next, Steve had closely monitored how much his boyfriend was drinking, acutely aware of the fact that alcohol _actually_ affected him. 

“I think you’re right,” Steve mused. He wasn’t sure how they’d get back. He hadn’t even taken his phone with him. It was up in the room with the leather couch, he believed. The screen would light up later as the team would text him, asking about where he was. “We were in an alleyway like this once.”

“Once?” James teased. “Only one time in our entire lives have we been in a moldy dripping alley?” Steve shoved him lightly, telling him to shut up. He rolled his eyes, smiling.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he shook his head, his hand brushed lightly against the brick wall. In between the seconds of rumbling engines and bustling voices, he could hear drips of water echoing, bouncing off of the walls. Steve tilted his head to the side, looking at the darkened path stretching before him.

“Oh,” James said softly, finally realising what Steve had been referring to. “Look— I— I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Steve assured, tearing his gaze from the brick wall and letting his eyes wander to James. He had to admit though, he was surprised to hear an apology. James had never wanted to bring up what had happened in that year.

_Steve was walking, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders braced against the cold, making his way back to the seedy hotel room he and Sam had rented. Sam had been telling him to give up, and Steve was beginning to feel as if his friend might be right. Maybe they wouldn’t find him, he was a trained agent, after all. Trying to find Bucky out in the world was like trying to find a needle in a barn of hay— no, scratch that. Trying to find Bucky out in the world was like trying to find a needle in a thousand barns of hay. He’d been foolish to think that he’d show up. Steve walked faster, wanting to spend as little time as possible in this biting cold, his nose was red and his eyelashes were holding pieces of snow and frose, he was shaking._

_“Stop following me,” the voice came from behind, no noise had indicated his arrival. Steve’s step faltered, he froze. The snow immediately began settling onto his boots, he didn’t mind. He didn’t turn around either, he already knew who it was._

_“Hi, Buck,” Steve said, smiling in spate of his unwilling shivering, the words came out shaky. His body didn’t seem to want to work well in this weather. “I’m glad—”_

_“Don’t call me that.” Bucky’s voice came, harder this time. The tone was forceful, still refusing to show emotion. Steve could recall the wide eyed look that had warranted his survival not so long ago, a memory refresher was all Bucky needed._

_“Look,” Steve said, slowly pulling his hands from his pockets and holding them above his head in a sign of surrender and peace. “Can we just talk.”_

_“No,” said Bucky. “I don’t have much to say.” Steve wanted to turn around, pull Bucky into a kiss, hold him close and will him into remembering their past. He wanted to sit with him and joke with him and make him feel safe and welcome and whole again. “I won’t be long.” Steve settled for turning around. His heart quickened, he was faced with the pleasantry of staring down his childhood friend and the barrel of a gun. What a treat._

_“What do you want?” Steve asked, already fearing what would be said._

_“Stop following me.” Steve pressed his lips together, knowing that he wouldn’t. Not that he would say that now. “I’m not who you want me to be. Just leave me alone. I just want to be left alone.”_

_“Let me help you, Bucky,” Steve begged, his hands slowly lowering. The gun’s safety was clicked off, back up they went._

_“Don’t call me that.” He repeated the words, they sounded just as emotionless the second time, as if they were being said by a computer, or a skilless actor._

_“What do you want me to call you?” Steve asked, his voice pleading._

_“Nothing.”_

“I know it was a rough time,” Steve acknowledged. “Being hunted down by two random people must not’ve helped.”

“You weren’t random people,” James said softly. “I was just scared.” Steve nodded, his heart still beating quickly from the bar incident, he pushed those memories aside, tilting his head to the left, prompting James to continue. “You have to understand, I— those people, they hurt me. They hurt me real bad Steve.” 

“I know.” His response came out softly, he wished that those people had never gotten ahold of him, leaving him crumpled and broken, ready to jump at a twitch and to scream and a misphrased sentence. It was rough, Steve tried his best to understand.

“On top of that whole thing— me wondering if they’d find me— I was also terrified of what was happening in my mind.” Steve had heard this before, but it had only ever been in bits and pieces. He wondered how much James was willing to share. “You’ve seen the notebooks,” he added softly. “Filled with those memories from before, back when I used to be Bucky.” Steve nodded knowingly, tiny stories, paragraphs at a time, sometimes only sentences, phrases, words. Whatever triggered a memory. James liked to hold onto them. They made him feel more human, Steve suspected. He hated Hydra.

A door in the alley opened, shining light on the wall opposite to them. A cook stepped out, freezing upon seeing the two strangers in the shadows. The door was propped open, shooting a sliver of light through the darkness, carrying with it the thick aroma of the expensive food most families could only afford one night a year. She squinted to make them out, resigned, and sat on an overturned and unplugged refrigerator. She hunched over, rubbing the back of her neck. She eyed them, her face holding a trace of confusion and warriness, her glances tried to be subtle. Steve nearly wanted to leave, continue this conversation. James clearly had some things he wanted to still talk about, his tiny fidgets and shifting feet made that much apparent. 

“You look—” she began, breaking the silence. Her stares were unafraid now, her chin tilted up in defiance. “Do you work at the place next door?” Her head nodded to the door on the wall opposite from hers, the one just beside Steve. A pile of trash bags sagged into a misshapen pile. James had fallen silent, he wasn’t big on talking to people directly outside his circle of familiar people. She looked at Steve, her hand fishing into her pocket, she pulled out a carton of cigarettes. He immediately recognized the pink tipped roll. He shot a glance at James. He hadn’t taken any notice, of course he hadn’t. James didn’t— that was Bucky’s thing. He knew that. 

_“Hey,” Steve said. He’d been jogging, headphones stuffed into his ears. The frost in the air and the early morning sun did little to make him feel warm. He’d needed to run though. The crisp air and the cool and cutting light woke him up, kept his mind sharp and reminded him of why he was doing all of this. Why he was refusing to pick up calls from Tony, Colson, Fury. Why he was out here in the first place. He wasn’t listening to music— he never did, really. So he’d heard it, the twig snap. An animal, maybe. But it had persisted, he’d paused for a breather, taken out his ear buds. The noises had stopped. Back in, they continued._

_“How did you know I was here?” The response came from behind, guarded, refusing to yield to the will of emotion. Steve was left wondering just what was going on in his mind. He didn’t ask, he didn’t want to scare Bucky off._

_“I heard you.” Steve was hunched over, catching his breath. He was glad he’d out-serumed his asthma. He’d hated that._

_“You…” he trailed off, Steve felt a tinge of satisfaction at the fact that he’d been able to to throw him off. He wanted to get through to him, the real him. Even if he was buried deep. “You can’t have.” Steve turned around, movements slow and deliberate. He’d only seen three times since that night, it took his breath away every time. His eyes were deep, wary, filled with turmoil. His hair was longer in between each meeting, he wasn’t getting it cut. He looked angry, afraid. Steve wanted to help him._

_“What do you want?” Steve asked, he knew that Bucky wouldn’t just show up like this for no reason. At least he wasn’t staring down a barrel this time. Trust was nice. He had no doubt that a sudden cough would be all it would take to result in him being knocked on the ground with a foot on his back, all in a matter of moments. No visible weapons, he was still dangerous. Sam kept telling Steve to stay wary, kept trying to remind him that he wasn’t the same person Steve remembered his childhood best friend being. Still…_

_“I want you to stop following me.”_

_“You keep saying that but you don’t hurt me.” Steve mused. He’d spent a lot of time reading up on memory recovery, he wasn’t an expert by any means, but he had a few ideas. Most had failed so far. The docks hadn’t yielded any results, nor had a rooftop meeting, at least, not that Steve was aware of. Bucky was an enigma, one that Steve had yet to come to understand._

_“I don’t hurt you because I don’t want to,” Bucky said, his voice straining. His gaze tore from Steve’s, his face was hard, his glance remained on the ground for a moment, they returned to Steve’s. Steve’s vision was clouded by the foggy breaths leaving his slightly parted lips. He liked to think that he could predict when Bucky would come to him. Go somewhere alone, far away from other people, somewhere where he wouldn’t be seen. He only ever showed up in those places, so Steve found himself going out alone, late at night, in hopes of recovering some of what was lost._

_“I think it’s because you remember me.” Steve’s words hung in the air, his bold claim was met without refutal. He hoped with every fiber of his being that it held true. He wanted to badly for it to be. “You want to remember more and you’re not sure how else to go about it. So you follow me, wait until I’m alone, and talk. You hope that I’ll say something that’ll-”_

_“Stop it.”_

_“— trigger a memory, anything. You just want to reme—”_

_“Stop.”_

_“—mber. And you want help but you’re too stubborn to admit it. Y—”_

_“I said stop.”_

_“—ou’ve always been stubborn. It’s who you are Bucky. Let me help yo—”_

_A gunshot sounded; Steve flinched, but only slightly. He’d been expecting it, he tensed, a tree beside him had shattered to pieces. Wood had scattered through the air, birds had been disturbed and tiny animals that had been hidden moments before skittered off. Steve had been right, in just a moment he’d pulled out a gun. Always ready._

_“I told you to stop.”_

_“I know, I just had to say it.”_

_“It’s not just that.” Bucky looked at Steve, his emotionless mask finally breaking. “I told you to stop calling me that.” This stopped Steve, made him pause. He hadn’t been expecting this part of the conversation. He’d never thought that Bucky was serious about that. He’d only said it the first time he’d seen Steve. And he hadn’t exactly told Steve what he wanted to be called. Bucky was facing the other way, staring at the tree. Steve fished into his pockets, pulling out a carton he’d taken everywhere with him for the past month._

_“You’re tense.” Steve noted, hoping that the anticipation wasn’t audible._

_“And I’m missing my arm. Are we done stating the obvious?” Steve felt bad for what he’d done, but he needed to offer…_

_“Have a smoke.” He held out the tiny box, flipping open the top, revealing the pink-striped cigarettes. Bucky looked up from the tree, cocking his head to the side._

_“You don’t smoke.” Steve smiled, so he had been watching him. Made sense._

_“You do.” The mask returned, stony faced, refusing to show emotion._

_“I don’t.” He returned the gun to his pocket with a sense of casualty that made Steve’s heart ache. How had they gotten here? They were two normal boys from Brooklyn, why did they ever have to be more than that?_

_“You do.” Steve insisted weakly._

_“This,” he motioned to his body, “used to. I don’t.”_

_“So what does that,” Steve motioned to Bucky’s body, “like to be called?” Bucky hadn’t been expecting this question. He glanced downwards._

_“James.”_

“Mister? Gee, hello?” Steve was shaken from his daze. It had only been a moment, but long enough for her to grow impatient. With good reason, he’d absolutely ignored her. 

“Sorry,” Steve said quickly. “I— I don’t, I just have one of those faces.”

“Want a smoke?” She held up the box. Steve was touched by her kindness, she had soft eyes, an understanding look about her. Steve held up his hand and shook his head. He glanced at James who was no doubt playing over the same memory in his head over and over again.

“We don’t smoke,” Steve said with a small chuckle. “Thank you though.” She shrugged, took a drag. Steve remembered with an odd vividness the smell of that smoke and the way it felt being pushed into his skin with a kiss to his cheeks and lips. “We’ll get out of your hair.” He grabbed James’ hand and tugged him along after. They walked farther from the streets, wandering deeper into the city, farther from main roads. They walked aimlessly, the memories flooded in droves, Steve was helpless to the whims of his mind.

_The next time Steve saw him, he was in a gas station, Sam was using the restroom. Steve had been browsing through a variety of snacks, useful things on such long road trips. It was three in the morning, the attendant was watching Steve with hawk’s eyes. The bell rang as the door opened, Steve didn’t look up._

_“I’m sorry I shot the gun.” Steve didn’t falter in his search for snacks, he knew that Bucky— James, wanted to do this casually. The meetings were growing increasingly frequent, Steve wasn’t about to complain. He was taken aback, however, at the apology. James had never done that. It was good to know that his emotions… worked? He smiled softly while pretending to read the ingredients of a bar wrapped in metallic blue paper._

_“I’m sorry I said you were using me.” Steve said softly. James was browsing the isle across from Steve, they weren’t looking at each other._

_“You’re not completely wrong,” James admitted softly. His voice came out strained. “They come back in flashes, sometimes and action or a word, but you’re invariably there.” Steve coughed softly to hide the smile that threatened to break out across his face. He busied himself by pretending to check the money in his wallet. He had unlimited funding. Stark wanted him back at the tower, but admitted that Barnes would be a ‘useful addition to the team.’ He’d tossed a card at Steve, telling him to go wild and come back with a second grandpa for the team._

_“Why James?” He asked before he could stop himself. He winced, but didn’t retract the question._

_“It doesn’t feel like who I am right now.” James said. Steve had been practicing, correcting himself at every slip up, it nearly came naturally now. He’d found himself calling the man across from him James, even in his mind where no one could reprimand him. He wanted to respect his wishes, but he also wanted to know why. “Maybe I’ll go by Bucky again one day, just not now. It feels like everyone sees me as whoever he used to be. I just want to distance myself from that person.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“Does that make sense?”_

_“Yes.” Oddly enough, it did. He was James, but Bucky. He might be Bucky one day again, but never That Bucky. An odd thought, definitely a confusing one to word. But a logical one nonetheless._

_“I have a question.” James stopped pretending to browse, he looked directly at Steve. Steve stopped his listless surveying of the food options, he met the blue eyes that he trusted so much. Different eyes, though. He had to remember that. Different eyes, different person._

_“Shoot.”_

_“Did we used to date? Back… before.” Steve’s breath caught in his throat._

_“... yes.” His voice was barely a whisper, his lips hardly moved. He wasn’t sure if it was visible or audible. He looked up and knew that James had heard it. He wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer to the question that bubbled to his lips but he asked anyways. “Does that upset you?” It’s not like he could read his face._

_“I have to go.” He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket, grabbing an item without looking. He tossed the crumpled bill at the counter, walking out before she could scan it. He tucked it under his arm, letting the door slam shut after him. Steve didn’t see which way he went._

_“Do you know him?” The person asked, surveying the cash. “He just tossed a hundred at me, I— I think he needs change. He only bought a two dollar spiral.”_

_“I do, it’s okay, keep it.” Steve bought several items with Stark’s card, pushing the plentiful pile into his backpack. He met Sam in the car, they drove._

“What’re you thinking of now?” James asked. 

“That time in the gas station.” Steve shrugged, he grabbed James’ hand. I didn’t fully get the name thing at the time, I do now though. I see you as a different person now, I didn’t then. I think the name helped. 

“Does that name still make you think of him?”

“I mean,” Steve began. He laughed. “Of course it does. I dated Bucky for however long.”

“Yeah.” James was quiet.

“But like, I see that as a different Bucky. Not that you go by Bucky. But I specifically remember wondering if I’d ever be able to think of you as Bucky without thinking of, yknow, Bucky.” James nodded, understanding. It had been a difficult transition on both of them. But what transition isn’t difficult? “But now, I feel like you could go by _‘Steve’s-Childhood-Friend-From-The-War’_ and—”

“I’m being serious!” James whined, tugging on Steve’s arm, leaning against him. His drunkenness was showing slightly. Steve reached his free hand over to tuck back several strands from his boyfriend’s face.

“So am I,” he assured with a tiny laugh. “I’m just saying, I see you as a completely different person now. What you go by wouldn’t change that.”

“Cool beans.”

“Have you been hanging out with Peter? Cool beans? Seriously?” Steve was hunched over slightly laughing. James giggled, his face reddening.

“I just— he said it and it was funny.” James smiled at Steve, a look of adoration adorning his face. Steve melted into his boyfriend’s touch. “So I stole his joke. Shhhhh.” Steve promised not to tell. 

_Steve was walking, it was more of a wander really. He didn’t have a destination in mind. Sam had just gotten finished with a rather heated conversation with Fury, he was tired of their wasting of SHEILD’s time. He wanted them back. They had two more months before the card’s account was going to be, much to Stark’s dismay, shut down. Steve had needed to clear his mind, he’d grabbed their car trip bag and had gone off to grab some fresh air. It had been nearly a year, he’d made so much progress. He was just about to sit down on a bench and hold his head in his hands dramatically when his phone dinged. Steve blinked and pulled it from his pocket, he stopped his heavy strides._

_It was from an unknown number._

_#: meet me in the building to your left._

_S: James?_

_No response._

_Steve felt his heart rate quicken. He hadn’t Seen James in two weeks, not since the gas station. With how frequent their small talks had grown to come, this was unusual. Steve was worried he’d ruined the fragile balance of their new friendship. He eyed the building, it had broken in windows and a door without hinges, it looked thoroughly abandoned. Steve supposed it would be just the place for the off-the-grid meeting James seemed to favor. Steve walked hesitantly to the premise, whispering a quiet apology as he stepped over a NO TRESPASSING sign. He made his way to the porch, the soggy wood sagged under his weight. He walked in, it was drier. The boarded windows had hidden the light from the outside world, emanating faintly from the staircase. He made his way up. The thick smoky air greeted him, Steve took in the sight of twenty something candles scattered on the ground. James was sitting, he looked up to meet Steve’s shocked gaze. He smiled weakly. Steve nearly couldn’t believe it. He’d seen tiny twitches of James’ face, but never unabashed smiling._

_“Thanks for coming. Sorry, there’s no electricity.”_

_“I thought you didn’t want to see me again.” Steve felt silly admitting this, he sat on the ground. A sleeping bag and a pile of food wrappers were the only pieces of decor in the room. That and a drawstring bag, bursting at the seams. Oh, and— how could Steve forget— all of the weapons propped up against the wall opposite of Steve. Cozy. James saw Steve eyeing the guns._

_“I’m unarmed.” He offered this weakly. Two firsts in one day, this was big. Big was progress. Progress was good. His hair was greasy, in tendrils, he looked scared. “I heard that our little game of cat and mouse is ending.”_

_“Ah,” Steve said. “Yeah, there’s that. It’s been fun, I guess we’ll get off your back finally. SHEILD’s orders.”_

_“Fun.” James said, using the same robotic voice he fell into whenever he wanted to hide his feelings. “Come here.” Steve moved closer, James was sitting beside him. “I need to ask you…” James reached for the drawstring bag, the string was fraying. It looked ready to be tossed out. James pushed aside several items of clothing, he didn’t have much. He pulled out a spiral notebook enclosed in a plastic bag. Steve immediately noticed it from the gas station._

_“Is that—”_

_“I’ve been filling it up with the things I remember, the things that Bucky saw and lived.” He unsealed the back, pulled it out. It hadn’t been long since Steve had last seen him, his mouth fell open when James flipped through the pages. Line to line, top to bottom, margins filled and frantic scribbles filled every inch, both sides, of each pages. “I’ve remembered a lot. I decided I don’t want to forget it. I write the important things.”_

_“Forgetting is bad,” Steve agreed, no other words would come to mind._

_“I’m scared to forget.” James wasn’t looking at Steve any longer. “I want to get these memories written down in case Hydra gets me and— I just don’t want to have to start all over again.” Steve nodded knowingly. It was hard starting over. Forgetting was scary, so so scary._

_“It’s okay to be scared.” Steve assured. “I’d be scared too if that’d happened to me.” James looked at Steve, Steve felt as if he were seeing him for the first time. There were no walls between them, only the flickering light of candles. They’d been stripped of their layers, left as their true selves._

_“There’s one thing.”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“I’ve found that if I sort of recreate the sense, I remember more. Like if I smell salt and hear water I think of the docks. If it’s windy and I’m high up, I think of the roof. If I smell baked stuff I think of your house. I think of my parents when I smell fresh wood. Tiny things.”_

_Steve nodded. He’d been going for something similar with the cigarettes, now wouldn’t be a good time to mention that. He kept quiet._

_“I keep thinking of kissing you.” Steve blinked. James was staring at him, a tentative smile gracing his lips._

_When Steve left that building later that night, he didn’t realise that he’d left his backpack there. Not until he next saw James with it on his shoulders, clicked in the front._

“I think I’d be okay with being called Bucky.”

“I think we’ll talk about that in the morning, last time I tried to push it you shot a gun.”

“You’re no fun,” James said, poking his tongue out between his teeth. He stumbled, Steve caught him.

“You’re just drunk,” Steve reminded. “And I value my lie.”

“Yeah.” James nodded. “Hydra’s a bitch, I got a half-assed serum. Unfair. You’ve been drinking all night, it doesn’t do shit to ya. I don’t wanna be drunk.”

“You should file a complaint.” 

“I’m not even _that_ drunk.” 

“Mmhmm.” Steve said, he’d slowly pulled out James’ phone, he’d dialed Pepper’s number. It was the only one he had memorised. She groaned, complained about being woken up, and got some private driver of Stark’s to find them. She was glad that they were found again, the team had been worried. Steve carried the only _slightly_ intoxicated James through the door to their room where they collapsed onto the bed, neither of them took notice of the brown paper package on their door. It was toed aside and forgotten.


	24. UNTRACKED PACKAGE

_Hey._ The voice floated to Steve’s ears, barely reaching his conscious. It echoed, sounding close and far at the same time. He was in the space of nothingness again, a place that he felt he hadn’t been to in years. _Steve?_ Steve wondered where he was. He was weightless again. Water washed over him, and he was becoming submerged. He spun slowly, the weight of sleep gradually lifting. He could feel gravity now— tugging downwards. It grew stronger, and Steve didn’t feel a need to breath, his movements were slow and unhurried. The voice came again. Clearer this time. _Baby? Wake up._ His trance was unravelling, the voice floated closer now. Steve wasn’t floating, he was sinking, being tugged downwards. He was surrounded by darkness, and he could feel something underneath him. 

“Steve?” Steve inhaled sharply. His eyes shot open. “Shi— sorry. Did I scare you?” Steve let out a shaky breath of a laugh and shook his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing at the light that hit his eyes. 

“Whatcha need James?” He slowly say upwards, leaning against the wall at the head of the bed. James was tugging on a loose thread coming from his shirt. He looked anxious, the way he usually did when they stayed at a place aside from their apartment. Steve didn’t think much of it at first, accrediting it to new environment. Well, not new, but unfamiliar. They’d stayed at Stark’s place many times, but that hadn’t done much to sway James’ opinion on the place. 

“This came in the mail.” James lifted up a box, the water-warped cardboard twisted and bent around the content’s corners, Steve looked inside. It was the tin box, the tackle box from the docks and the roof. Steve frowned. They had left this at their apartment, in the linen closet. He was blinking, taking a few deep breaths to wake himself up. He shifted so he was fully facing James, stifling a yawn.

“Why’s that here?” Steve was answered by silence, a silence that revealed the footsteps treading on the floor above them along with the blaring of car horns on the city streets below. Steve wondered if anyone else was up yet. They shouldn’t be since the clock beside the lamp showed that it was early, around five. 

“It came in the mail,” James repeated in a monotone voice, his eyes shifting, glancing at every corner of their apartment. “I called the Jones’ and had them check to see.” James pulled the metal box from the cardboard one, his hands shaking slightly. “They said our box was gone, but that our place looked the same. I’ve checked the room and elevator for bugs—but maybe another round—I might’ve missed something.”

“It’s okay,” Steve assured. He grabbed James’ shaking fingertips and held them tight. He wasn’t sure why he was reacting to this so calmly. For whatever reason, he didn’t see someone breaking into their home and stealing the box to mail it to them as a threat. He should, by God he should. He was an Avenger, and there were people out to kill him. The issue just didn’t seem pressing, for something in the back of his mind reassured him. He didn’t quite know what. “We’ll have the post office by our house pull the security cameras.” James didn’t look convinced, and he shot a wary glance at the box.

“There’s no return address,” James said softly. “There’s nothing on the package to have it tracked.” Steve nodded, somehow unsurprised. He held out his free hand for the box, and James obliged with a look akin to relief on his face. Steve dropped James’ hand and tilted the box. It didn’t _look_ tampered with. Then again, if someone had been able to break into their house without a trace, then getting into a tin box wouldn’t be too awfully hard. 

“Let’s go to the roof then,” Steve said. He knew James, knew what made him anxious and what calmed him. He checked rooms for bugs whenever they went someplace new, didn’t trust walls when he felt like he was being watched, hated looking at mirrors, jumped at even the softest buzz of a lightbulb, paled at the crackle of electricity. He liked heights, the wind lightly twisting his hair, putting his world of worries underneath him. He liked Steve. “Get some fresh air.” James nodded, grabbed his bag, and gulped.


	25. LETTING GO

“Thank you.” Steve was leaning in against James’ outstretched leg, using it as a pillow as opposed to the hard metal underneath them. He couldn’t say that he was acquainted with this rooftop; at least, not as well with the one at their home in Brooklyn, where they’d take the three legged cat and sit up there watching the clouds while eating whatever snacks they’d managed to stuff into their pockets. He wasn’t as familiar, but he didn’t hate it. It definitely wasn’t hurting the mood either. James had calmed down. It seemed the crisp morning air and slight breeze had been all that he’d needed. His fingers, dancing with a movement beyond his control just moments before, had stilled.

“Anytime,” Steve said with a smile. James was running his fingers through Steve’s hair while he looked out at the brightening skyline. The skyscrapers stood in stark contrast to the pale blue, slowly turning purple. The clouds’ undersides were highlighted in an electric pink. Steve could feel the breeze running across his cheeks, his finger hooked with James’. He held the box’s latch in his other hand, where it sat open on his lap. James leaned forwards, grabbed another photo and holding it up to the light.

“What’s this one?” He handed it to Steve. Steve took it, and he had to squint to make it out in the dimly lit atmosphere. He saw he and Bucky giving a battered smile to the camera, remembering that day.

“We’d just saved a girl from getting mugged,” he said, smiling. “She was a photographer, and she insisted on getting our photo, asked for my address and everything. Do you remember that?” Steve tilted his head, looked up at James. His brow was furrowed in concentration. He was trying to grasp the memory, to make sense of the colors Steve was painting the image with. The look of confusion melted into comfort.

“I think so,” he said. He pulled Steve’s hooked finger closer to his hand, and they intertwined their fingers. The air was warming, the sky brightening. “We’d thought she was going to try and let one of us ask her out. Right?”

“Yeah,” Steve laughed. “You were terrified. I didn’t understand why at the time.” James let out a dry laugh.

“It’s weird to think of you being that short.” James leaned forwards again, pulling out another photo. This one was creased and folded in half. Smoothing it, he held it up so the pair could make out the contents of the image at the same time. It was James— Bucky, standing on the docks. He was smiling, a girl was hanging on his arm. Steve could just barely make out a pair of eyes hidden behind her dark bangs, her dark lips quirked into a smile. The two’s heads of hair were blown in the wind, pressed close to the skin on one side and flowing on the other. Bucky was squinting against the wind. He had rented a boat for the day, excited for it. “I think,” James began slowly. “Her name was Sara. Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Steve laughed. “She was fun. I think she broke up with you when you didn’t want to do more than hold her hand.” James laughed. Steve pulled another one without looking, noticing it was a relatively unweathered photo. He handed it to James. “What’s this one?” James was quiet for a bit. Steve glanced up. His boyfriend was frowning at the photo. 

“I don’t know,” James said. “I don’t even remember that place.” Steve grabbed the photo and inspected it closer. He felt something in the back of his mind, a click of recognition. He couldn’t grasp it. The thought was quickly pushed aside.

“We must’ve been too drunk to remember,” he said, motioning to the beer bottles they were holding in their hands. The rooftops looked familiar. Steve felt a swell of confusion. He felt like he should know, and wanted to remember. He narrowed his gaze. Peggy was in it, he’d know her anywhere. She was with— he didn’t know who. Must’ve been a friend of hers. They looked close. “Oh well.” He picked up another. “We snuck into a movie for this one,” Steve laughed. He motioned to the last picture of the photo strip, where a pair of hands were reaching into the photobooth. They’d been dragged out and kicked to the curb. They’d scrambled to gather the torn pieces of the ripped up photo, taping them together in the falling light of the night. Steve laughed at the memory, trying to push aside the feeling of unease. The clouds were spreading, showing the purple sky. It was turning pink now, the clouds becoming red. Steve looked up at James and smiled. The rising sun drew shadows on Steve’s face, leaving his face in a soft contrast, the lines of worry seeming to melt away. From the war, from their worries, all of the lifetime's worth of stresses. All of the lines of worry slipped from his features. He viewed the world through younger eyes, everything seemed brighter— lighter.

And it was a fitting view. Because Steve was young again. Sitting up here, holding the photos in his hands, his head resting against James’ leg. He felt as if he were nearly seeing him for the first time. His fingers uncurled, and the photos fell to the rooftop, skating lightly across the surface in the light breeze. James was smiling at the ground. Steve reached up with his now empty hand and cupped James’ face. The photos tumbled away, nearing the edge, and Steve could see James eyeing them. 

“Hey,” Steve said softly, dragging his boyfriend’s gaze downwards to his own. The blue eyes softened and relaxed as they met Steve’s. “I don’t care about the past, not anymore.” The wind was beginning to pick up in the early morning light, howling through the buildings like old moans of protest. Steve shut out the noise. “I know I’ve spent a lot of time in my head lately, but it’s behind me.”

“How do you know?” James asked, his eyes flicking away from Steve’s own. He had begun biting his own lip. Steve was caught by surprise at this question, as he didn’t really have an answer. He’d just passed out yesterday, really, who was to say that these were really done for? James’ hair was catching the wind slowly raising upwards, his strands of hair lifting and straying from their places in a soft dance. Steve pulled James’ face down to his own, kissing him deeply and letting his hold on his cheek loosen until his fingertips were just barely grazing James’ skin.

“I’m not sure,” Steve admitted when the kiss finally broke apart. He could hear the photos skittering across the rooftop. “I just know. And I guess you’ll have to trust me on that one.” James nodded, his nose still touching Steve’s. Steve shifted and sat up, swinging his leg so he was straddling James’ torso. James, however, took no notice; he was instead fixated on the photos, which were picking up wind beneath themselves, leaping to the sky before landing once more. The wind seemed to circle around the pair, and the photos followed this pattern. Steve put his face against James’ chest. The photos were lifting now, and Steve was reminded of a fraction of a dream, the rest of which he had no recollection of. Atop a mountain, snow circling him, as if influenced by a magical force. 

“Look,” James said, pulling Steve’s attention away from his deeper thoughts. Steve followed his gaze and watched the photographs dancing around in the wind, refusing to touch down to the rooftop’s surface, each one being blown away by gusts. Steve felt an ache in his heart, almost for something that might have been. But what it might have been he did not know, and did not care to know. “Don’t you want to save them?” James wondered aloud. Steve could nearly ask himself the same question. Why didn’t he want to save them? Why, after all these years, was he ready to leave the past in the past? 

“No,” he found himself saying, and as soon as the word left his mouth, he knew it to be true.

“I want to leave the past behind too,” James said. “I’ve been scared to… forget? I think.” Steve nodded knowingly. He replayed the memory from several years prior in his head. “I’m done living my life worried that I’ll end up being too much like Bucky. I’m my own person.” 

“You are.” Steve assured. He smiled. James pressed a kiss onto Steve’s forehead. James reached into his backpack, digging in and pulling out both of his notebooks. Steve had seen them in passing, the first one was from the gas station all of those years ago. Memory was knowledge, it pushed the world forward, but it can also be a set of weighted shackles in the middle of an ocean with no end in sight. Remember, yes, but don’t let it hold you back. James opened it and held it for Steve to see, he’d never read it. He’d always felt that it would be an invasion of privacy. He knew that this wasn’t an invitation to read, however. He glanced at the pages, not fully reading a single one. Skim. Skim. Skim. He flipped through.

 _Trust steve._

In the margins, he felt himself smile. Another page, the same phrase written with varying levels of intensity, filling every line, crammed into every blank spot. Sometimes underlined, sometimes in all caps, sometimes boxed off, circled, starred. Steve flipped through, among the memories, this phrase was written. He remembered what James had said that night.

_“I’ve remembered a lot. I decided I don’t want to forget it. I write the important things.”_

In case Hydra got him again, that’s what he’d said. Steve’s breath caught. James pulled the notebook from Steve’s hand. Steve felt a tension lift from himself further. He felt light, content. James was relaxed. He took the pages, tearing them from the spine. The wind plucked them from his fingers, from the rooftop where they’d land. Photos and pages, mixing and churning before them, twirling and hopping. Their shared past, not irrelevant. It was the present that mattered.

“I mentioned last night, I think,” James began slowly. “That I might be okay with being called Bucky.”

“You did.” Steve agreed carefully, knowing just how big of a step this was. He looked up at James, waiting for him to continue. “D’you wanna build on what you said or sleep on it?”

“Build on it.” James said. “I talked with our therapist about it for a bit a while ago. I’m ready. It’s a cool nickname, after all.”

“It _is_ pretty cool,” Steve said with a laugh. “Why let the past stop you from being happy right now?”

“Exactly.” James smiled. “It’s a stupid thing to do. The past is gone.”

“Screw the past.” He blinked a few times and smiled, placing his head back down where it had been resting.

Steve leaned against James, and the sleep he had been shaken from finally began to catch up to him. His eyelids grew heavy and his fingertips lost their will to move. In his slow-blinking moments, the colors of the city and the sunrise blended together like running paint, creating a perfect blend of serenity. The rising and falling of his boyfriend’s chest lulled Steve into a deep sleep. In his final moments of consciousness, he felt a soft kiss being pressed to the top of his head. 

“I love ya, Buck.” Steve’s words were slurred with sleep.

“Me too, Rogers.” And with a sigh, he finally let himself go. He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! I'm theo, thanks for sticking through until the very end. If you have an idea for something you'd like me to write, hit me up! My tumblr is the same @, hope to hear from you!
> 
> I'd love to thank EnsignAnna on tumblr (and ao3 now!) for helping me edit through this mess of a story. I'm so glad I got to work with such an amazing person, she put up with ALL of my run on sentences and that's pretty difficult to do. :')
> 
> If you liked this fic then leave a comment letting me know, it means the world to me and even just a kudos brightens my day, I'm super chill so if you ever need anyone to talk to come by on tumblr and I'll listen to whatever it is you want to say. Have a rockin day every one ! : )


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